Breaking the Ties that Bind
by WhiteVeils
Summary: -Complete- -Major revisions in all chapters- First a life was lost, then hope, then a soul. But the story did not begin there, and will not end there. Find out what the Realm has in store for all our lost souls.
1. Breaking the Ties

**Dungeons & Dragons : Breaking the Ties that Bind**

_**Disclaimer:**__ This story was begun in 1997, and even then it was inspired by an initial premise developed by a fanfiction writer named Sorka who posted the starting scenario and some of the beginning scenes about the Red Blades on her web page. Her writing was wonderful, and, though I've modified heavily over the years, I owe her a bundle for allowing me to wander off with her story and take it places she never meant for it to go. All her work here is used with permission. This work is a piece of fan fiction based on the animated series Dungeons and Dragons, originally owned by TSR and now a product of Marvel Productions. Other referred to media resources belong to their respective companies. Victoria Bishop provided last names for the kids. I'd also like to thank Zakiyah for trading me the video tapes so long ago, my beta readers, and Especially my husband for listening to me talk about this story for hours and hours and editing it unmercifully. Thank you. This story is very dark in places. Rated PG13 for mature themes, language, hinted-at drug use and sex, and violence. Any feedback received most gratefully. _

**Chapter 1: Breaking the Ties**

Nearly four years of fruitless searching and once again, they were almost home. Deep in the heart of the Dragon Spine Mountains, buried at the center of a maze of tunnels, and fiercely protected by the Gray Dwarves, lay a rift that Dungeonmaster told them would lead them home. However, the rift's protectors were well armed, seasoned dwarven warriors, outnumbering them five to one. The attack came full force just as they reached the rift. The six of them fought fiercely to keep from being captured.

The cave thundered with the sound of golden arrows ricocheting off the walls as Hank released volley after volley. Diana's staff spun, but her opponents easily evaded her attacks. Sheila, stealing behind a dwarf to trip him, yelped as the dwarf turned and bumped into her, knocking back her hood. He wrapped his arms around her, quickly joined by three others who held her fast. Bobby, her younger brother, had fought his way to the very edge of the rift when he heard her cry for help. He turned to see her being dragged towards a small cavern by the four dwarves. He acted. With all his strength, he hurled his club at the entrance to the small cavern. The mouth of the cave collapsed under the impact. Cracks from the blow spread outward, racing along cavern walls already weakened by the primal forces of the rift.

The entire cave system began to collapse. The dwarves bolted through the other passages leading away from the rift. The six young ones scrambled to reach a way out as the roof began to collapse.

Bobby stumbled as he tried to get towards the others. Sheila darted forward to grab her brother as the cave roof began to fall in giant chunks of stone. Diana and Hank desperately tried to knock boulders out of the way to help her while Eric, with a wail of "This is stupid!", leaped forward to shield her.

Bobby was only five steps away when the entire back half of the cavern collapsed on top of him. He disappeared under a wall of broken stone and dust. Sheila screamed and ran forward, clawing at the rock.

Trying to shield her, Eric looked down and saw the floor beginning to crack. "This whole place is coming apart!" he yelled over the din of falling rocks. "We have to get out of here before we all get killed." He glanced over his shoulder to see Hank, Presto, and Diana trying to make it over to him. "No! Get out of here! We'll be right behind you!" When he saw them hesitate, he screamed, "I said GO!!!"

Hank nodded his head, turned and started to run, as best he could, toward the remaining unblocked passage. Presto and Diana scrambled to follow. Eric waited only long enough to see Hank turn, then turned back to Sheila. In the few moments that he had looked away, she managed to claw her fingers bloody in her effort to get to her brother. He grabbed her arm in an attempt to pull her away, but she wrenched herself free of his grasp, screaming Bobby's name. Cursing with frustration as they slipped on a floor that was breaking away beneath their feet, he hit her on the back of the head with his shield, then dragged her out of the cave seconds before the roof fell in.

The cave collapsed completely in a roar of stone, rock, and billowing dust. Then, for a moment, everything was still.

* * *

Seeing Sheila's prone form in Eric's arms, the others ran to help. They carried her down the slope that lead to the cave and laid her under a small group of trees.

"What happened in there?" Hank asked as he checked the bump on her head.

Eric sank to his knees in exhaustion. "She wouldn't come. I hope I didn't hurt her too bad. . . but if I hadn't hit her we'd both be dead now." The strain in his voice told them how he regretted what he had had to do.

"Where's Bobby?" Presto asked nervously, looking around for the boy who would should never be far from his sister's side if she was hurt.

Eric was quiet for a full minute trying to find some way to say it. He took a deep breath, and a tear crept down his cheek as he fought to keep the control he displayed in the cave.

"He didn't make it," he said. "The cave just. . . fell on top of him..." Finally, he let himself cry angry tears. His fists pounded the ground. "If I'd just gotten to him sooner!"

Diana, her eyes beginning to well her own tears, knelt down beside Eric and wrapped her arms around him. "It's not your fault," she whispered. He let her hold him. They wept together as night fell around them.

* * *

Sheila regained consciousness after nightfall,. At first it was gray; she couldn't remember what had happened. But when she saw her hands, now cleaned and bandaged, she knew. On raw instinct, she began to run straight back towards the cave where Bobby still lay, but she didn't get far. Hank tackled her before she escaped the campfire's light.

"Damn you, Hank! Let me go! I said, let me go!" Sheila fought, pounding his chest with her bandaged hands.

"It's too dark to go back in there," Hank said, ignoring her fists. "I want to find him alive as much as you do. But you're in no shape to go back there now, and the whole mountaintop is still rumbling. We'll go back in the morning."

"He could be dead by morning!" she pleaded. "Please....let me go find him."

"I'm sorry, Sheila." His voice was firmer than he felt. "I'm not going to let you go in there tonight. You can hate me if you want, but I can't lose you too."

The grief in his voice made her pause. She saw in his face a mirror of her own pain; he seemed to have aged years in a few hours. The tenseness in her body slowly released. Reluctantly she agreed not to leave the camp until morning. Hank helped her back to her feet and led her back to the fire. It was well after midnight before the last of them fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The next morning, the five remaining young ones returned to the cave. They found the entire back of the cave where Bobby and the rift had been collapsed in on itself. A huge pit gaped where the floor had been, but beyond that, nothing. For three days, they searched for any trace of the boy. In the end they found only his horned helmet, smashed flat under the weight of a ton of rubble. There was no choice. They had to admit he was gone.

Sheila held back her tears until then. Now she broke down, weeping uncontrollably. No matter what her friends did, they knew it would be a hollow comfort. They let her cry herself out, watching her carefully, and nursed their own sorrow.

...

As the last sun set, Presto saw a change, a hint of something that the others had not noticed. Sheila's tears had gone from soft sobs to hysterical weeping to exhaustion, but as darkness fell, the sobbing stopped. As he watched, Sheila's features froze into a grim anger that chilled the very air around her. Her eyes seemed cold now, as if all the laughter and joy of life that had been a part of her personality were locked away for good. She picked up her cloak and walked a few steps away from them before she lay down to sleep. When Presto saw that, he wrapped his arms around his knees, bowed his head, and shuddered in the cold by the fire. He knew Sheila would survive, but deep in his heart, he now silently mourned the loss of two of his best friends.

* * *

"I don't want to say this now, but we have to leave this place, Sheila." Diana said, first sun lighting the sky with a pastel glow. She held out her hand to help the other girl up.

"The hat's not given us anything useful," Eric said, looking at anywhere but Presto. "And I haven't seen any edible plants anywhere nearby." There was no choice. Bitterly, they made their way down the mountain.

* * *

When Bobby saw the cave above him begin to collapse, he tried to get to Sheila and one of the passages out of the cave. Before he could get there, a falling rock knocked off his helmet and sent him stumbling to the ground. He saw his sister run towards him and realized with growing panic that she would not reach him before the cave fell in. As he got up to his feet, a slab of rock slammed down directly in front of him. He jumped backward to avoid getting crushed, catching himself on the edge of the rift. As more boulders crashed down around him, he tumbled backwards into the abyss.

He hung in the place between worlds for what seemed like hours. It was a void with neither light nor sound. Just when he thought that he would be trapped there forever, light exploded around him, and he felt himself being pulled up. The light was so bright he had to shut his eyes,. The feeling of falling replaced the pulling sensation.

Bobby must have passed out, for the next thing he knew he was lying face down on a carpet of cut grass. The sounds of people laughing and having fun filled his ears, but nearby he heard many voices murmuring. He opened his eyes and saw a loose ring of people standing around him looking concerned. A man stepped forward tentatively, dressed in a police officer's uniform. It had been so long since Bobby had seen one that it took him a moment to remember what it was.

"Are you all right, son?" the cop asked.

"I'm not sure." Bobby said, looking around him. "I think so...." The cop helped the boy stand up. Bobby didn't notice the cop's thoughtful stare.

"Hey, you're a mess," the cop said, indicating the cuts and bruises that covered his arms and legs. "Come on. I'll get you cleaned up. By the way, I'm Officer Phil Granger. What your name?"

"Bobby," he answered.

Bobby let himself be led to a police car, where the officer took out his first aid kit and started to clean his cuts. When he was done, Granger went into his car and pulled out a list of missing children. He often checked them when dealing with a kid he didn't know. Whatever he had been expecting, it certainly wasn't what he found.

At the top of the list of missing children was a poster of six kids that had disappeared over three and a half years ago. The case was left open, but at the time there was nothing to go on. It had been a very unusual case. No motive, no witnesses, no evidence. At the same time, the same day in fact, another boy had disappeared from his room. He hadn't run away or been kidnapped. He was just gone. But, unlike the first case, the young boy suddenly reappeared in his bedroom a month later. He had thought that he just had a very vivid dream, and that no time had passed. It took some time to convince the boy that he really had been missing. When he realized the truth, he told everyone he could that the six others were alive but lost on another world. None of the people involved believed a word of it. After hearing his parents wanted to put him into therapy, he stopped talking about it.

Now looking at the flyer and Bobby sitting on the hood of his car, Granger wished he listened to the other boy more closely.

* * *

Perhaps if Dungeonmaster had reappeared the day of the cave in, or even during the days that they searched, he would have been a welcome sight. Perhaps. When he did finally show himself, the reception he received was less than amiable. His charming smile and warm words stood in contrast to the long faces around him. He faltered at this, but began to tell them of another portal to their home. His students, surprisingly, held their peace as he spoke, but it was a dead silence that hung between his words.

When he finished, they looked at him. Sheila stood, walked over to him, and dropped her cloak at his feet. The others followed suit, dropping their weapons, their only means of defense, in front of him. His eyes were filled with confusion, a look they had never seen in him before.

"What is the meaning of this, Young Ones?" His eyes went to each of them, searching for answers. It was a moment before he noticed what was missing. It had been too long since he had looked in on them. "Where is the young barbarian?"

The Dungeonmaster felt a wave of dark rage flow from his little Thief. Her eyes sparkled with so many emotions that the light in them almost seemed mad. Yet it was the Ranger that spoke, his voice heavy with grief.

"Bobby's gone ... he's dead." His voice cracked with emotion as he described what had happened. When the Ranger was done, he locked eyes with him. Those eyes seemed to accuse him of the tragedy.

"I grieve with you in this time of sorrow." His heart did ache when he stretched out his senses to find his Barbarian gone. His visions had shown them captured by the dwarves, their eventual escape, and the resulting political uprising that would overthrow the current Thane. They had revealed nothing like this.

"Yet, we can not let ourselves be overwhelmed by grief." Dungeonmaster seized upon a solution to their pain, a distraction from it. Even in spite of the sorrow, he could perhaps hold them just a little longer. "The portal I spoke of could be your way home."

". . . home. . . ." The Thief whispered the word, though he barely heard it.

"Yes, home ... where you can put this great loss behind you." He didn't want to lose them, not like this. They had accomplished so much! Dungeonmaster earnestly hoped they would jump at the chance to get home. As they always had. He continued describing the path they should take. After all, they had hoped for so long. . . . What he missed was the spark of white hot anger that flared between them.

A scream that seemed to have been torn from the depths of her soul erupted from the Thief. Like a wounded animal, she whirled on him. He was so startled that he retreated a step, yet she stopped short of touching him.

"How dare you!!!" she screamed at him. "How could you think we could go home now? My brother is DEAD!! How can I face my parents knowing I couldn't protect him?"

"But you can not say that you're giving up," Dungeonmaster protested. He felt the threads slipping though his fingers, the waves of her anger. "Not after all this time."

"Yes, after all this time," his Magician said softly. His hands were clenched and his slender body shook with barely-contained rage. "After all this time as your 'pupils', you've hardly taught me enough control to get us a warm meal from that stupid hat when we can't find food. How can you call yourself a teacher when you're with us only a few minutes in a week's time?"

The Acrobat struck a defiant pose. Even without the staff, she made an imposing figure. Dungeonmaster had thought that she would be the first one to be swayed by his words, but he had forgotten she still felt the pain of losing the Child of the Stargazer. Now she was as steady as a rock against him.

"Even if you could send us back home at this moment," the Cavalier said, a cold edge to his voice, "We would still refuse. The price has been too high already."

The Dungeonmaster bowed his head and folded his hands. "What will you do now, Young Ones?" he asked with resignation. He realized that this was to be their way of saying goodbye.

The Ranger hesitated a moment and said, "What ever we do. Where ever we go. It's no longer your concern."

One by one they turned their backs on the Dungeonmaster, walking down the trail. He watched them go until the last of them was out of site. Not one of them looked back. With a sigh, he gathered up the weapons at his feet and vanished.

* * *

The trail led the five worn travelers to Standwell, a small town on the edge of the wilderness. Like most border towns this one had a stockade fence surrounding it. When trouble came the gates could be closed to give those inside enough time to organize a defense. Farmers living outside the town would have to reach the walls before the gates closed or they would have to fend for themselves.

Yet, the Realm had changed. Venger and his orcish armies, weakened by many battles and many failures, had disappeared over a year ago, and all hoped this would be the last time. Most had heard some rumor of his death.

Free of his evil, the land slowly recovered. Cities and villages flourished in the waste. Kings and queens, for good or ill, carved new kingdoms out of Venger's empire, and settlements had sprung up where they would have once been crushed under his cruel hand. Isolated villages came out of hiding and began to establish routes of trade. Monsters and demons, undead, and the rare dragon still roamed the Realm, but the lack of a tyrannical overlord gave the settlements of humans time to blossom. It was a dangerous place, and in Venger's wake, other would-be rulers considered claiming his throne, but the men and women of the world were beginning to get their faith back, beginning to believe again that stout walls and strong hearts could keep out the darkness and bring security and peace.

To the relief of the five companions, there was no sign of trouble when they reached the town. As usual, they were carefully watched as they passed the walls into the town proper, but no one tried to stop them. It was a relief not to have to be randomly attacked for once, a relief to be around other people. Exhausted and dirty, they stumbled to the little inn in the center of town.

...

The Dragon Spit was a tavern built around a single common room with a dozen tables. A set of stairs lead to the sleeping area, which consisted of one large sleeping barracks with bunks and one or two small private rooms. As the five travelers arranged themselves around one of the round tables, a young girl came from the back room. She took a look at them, and went back into the kitchen to reemerge with five large tankards. She set one down in front of each of them with a smile.

"This is just water," she said warmly. "You look like you could use it." They mumbled their thanks and sipped the cool water gratefully.

* * *

Hank had been watching his friends closely all day. He was worried. Not since Uni had been hurt, and they had left her in the care of her kind in the Valley of the Unicorns, had their eyes held so much anger or pain. But this time they had no way to release it, no cure. Well, they could have kept following Dungeonmaster, perhaps even let him show them the way home once again. _'No! No more!' _His thoughts held an edge to them that he didn't like. He pushed it down.

The fact that they made it to the town without a fight was a testament to how much danger was inherent in being Dungeonmaster's students. If they encountered an enemy without their weapons, they could be in big trouble. '_But if it comes,' _he thought, blue eyes turning to steel, '_It will be on our terms. Not his.'_

His eyes rested on Sheila for an instant. He had hoped, somehow, they could help her with her grief. But already he could hear the silence between them. In fact, she had barely said two sentences in as many days. All their efforts only served to make her retreat further. She would need to be watched.

For himself, Hank felt inadequate in this new situation. Leading his friends in this world had been relatively easy with someone else telling them where to go. Now they were adrift, without direction or purpose, and he was too tired, too empty, to find the path forward. Sooner or later they would have to decide what they would do. For now, he sipped his water, keeping his thoughts to himself.

...

Eric looked at Presto out of the corner of his eye. He knew there was something going on with his long-time friend, but he couldn't place it. It seemed as though the air around him was charged with static electricity, but Presto was too distracted to even notice. However, Eric felt it every time he got close to the ex-magician. It didn't help that Presto wasn't taking that loss of his hat very well. Eric had noticed him trying to work a spell the night before, but, naturally, nothing happened. Even though Presto's hat was erratic at best, he had, with much effort, gained some control. Eric supposed that he was disappointed that he never mastered it.

Privately, Eric was amazed that he wasn't panicking. His weapon had never been offensive. In some ways, that may have hurt him more than having no weapon at all. While he could protect himself and his friends, he couldn't fight back. Not the way Hank could. Oh, but he wanted to though, and that need began to burn brighter with every fight, with every desperate race through some murky swamp or lava plain. He was sick of running. Now all he wanted was a sword and someone to learn from. '_From now on, they can just run from me for a change!'_

_...  
_

Presto knew there was something wrong. He felt it. He also knew that Eric knew; not that there was anything he could do about it. It had started the moment they gave up their weapons, when he gave the hat back to Dungeonmaster. The wrongness had grown as the days passed; it was getting worse. He couldn't afford to be sick, not now. But in truth, Presto felt like he was burning up inside. His skin tingled, his head ached, and he was seeing things. At first it had just been a soft outline on everything around him, but now it was a glow that included colors. He didn't dare tell anyone. What could they do? They all had enough problems as it was.

Maybe if he tried, he could twiddle himself up some new glasses or a healing potion or something. . . except he couldn't twiddle anything any more. He'd given it a shot last night, and a few times since. It only made his head hurt even worse, and nothing happened anyway. He figured the best he could do was try to rest for a few days. Then he would wait and see. He rested his chin in his hands and watched with mild interest as a woman who glowed soft green discussed some mercenary company to the south with a golden man at the next table. Well, being sick in the Realm was never boring.

...

Diana had lost so much since they had come here. Her soulmate, found and lost in less than a week. Her heart still ached a little, but not the way it had. The Child of the Stargazer prophecy had been fulfilled. The people were saved. But the price? His mortal existence. Her journey home. He returned to his home, to the realm of the spirit. She knew that somehow she'd see him there when her time came, but that knowledge was little comfort. For now, she was alive. She could continue to live, to fight, to laugh.

Since that time, she had lost her desire to go home. She never told any of her friends. There was no way they could understand. Now, though, with the loss of Bobby, they knew it all too well. The decision to stay wasn't her idea. It was Eric's. Of all of them, she didn't expect it to come from him. But the vote was taken. Never again would they try to return to the planet of their birth. Still, it hurt to know that she would never see her parents again. By now, home would be nearly as alien as this world was when they first arrived. She couldn't go back.

...

Sheila wanted to die. Her heart felt so heavy that it might stop on its own if she willed it. But no matter how hard she tried it kept on beating. She was still alive. She walked with her friends because they wouldn't leave her behind. But they didn't realize the burning pain they caused her with words that were meant to comfort. If Hank would not let her escape, she could still retreat into herself. So she pulled away from them, farther and farther, searching for silence and cool shadows. She knew that if the others ignored her for a moment, she would leave them. She wasn't sure what she'd do once she was alone but that really didn't matter. All that mattered was that she had lost her brother, and she felt totally alone.


	2. The Choosing

**Chapter 2: The Choosing**

They bought food and beds for the night with coins scavenged from the fallen dwarves. By the time the young barmaid came back, her tray heavy with bowls of rich stew, the crowd had increased significantly. Some of the newcomers simply ignored the young ones, while others cast appraising glances at them.

"Are you here for the Choosing?" asked the barmaid as she gave them their stew.

"Choosing?" Hank asked.

"Yes. The Choosing. When masters of the different crafts come looking for apprentices? Didn't you know?"

"Actually no," Eric said. "We've never even heard of any Choosing. Are you a candidate?"

She smiled brightly. "Yes. All the young people are eligible. Even you, if you don't already have a master."

"No. We don't have a master." Sheila snapped. The barmaid's face drained of color and she nearly dropped a bowl of stew in Presto's lap. Sheila caught the startled looks on her friends' faces. She glared at them as well and went back to her food.

"When is the Choosing to take place?" Hank asked, drawing the barmaid's attention back with an apologetic smile.

"Tomorrow. For the first time in years, there are more masters than hopefuls. We all have a chance of getting picked." She glanced wistfully at a large table with several men and women in deep discussion. Obviously, these where some of the masters. "Maybe I won't end up as waiting tables for the rest of my life." One of the other patrons signaled to her and she was off again.

* * *

The next day, the whole town turned out to witness the Choosing ceremony. It began with all the Hopeful standing in a loose line as the local priest blessed them in turn. The five companions stood off to one side, watching. The Masters then, one at a time, walked down the line. The ones that chose would stop in front of their chosen and tap them on the shoulder. That Hopeful would then leave the line and follow his or her new master down the length of the line to the cheers of his or her family. The others simply walked down the line to the other end. A few of the masters kept looking over at the companions. As the last of the children where chosen, there was a great cheer from the townsfolk. The priest raised his hand for silence and the crowd quieted down.

" 'Tis a time of great rejoicing," he began, his voice quavering with age. "But it is also a time of sadness, for those chosen today will leave on the morrow to begin training for a new life. For some, it is but a short journey to visit family and friends. For others, this will be the last time they see their loved ones." He paused as his words sank in. "Tonight, let there be a celebration so they may carry with them joyous memories of home 'til they return."

With that, the musicians that had waited to one side during the ceremony struck up a lively tune, and the crowd cheered again as the festivities began.

* * *

Some time during the party Sheila slipped away unnoticed. She needed to get away from the crush of people in the town square. Taking a pathway between two buildings, she headed for the stockade fence. When she reached it, she found handholds in the posts and started to climb.

"Not bad," a voice said, somewhere to her left. Sheila yelped and almost lost her grip as she turned toward the voice. "Good recovery too. For a beginner."

The voice belonged to a man dressed all in black. Standing in the long evening shadows, he was almost impossible to see. The only thing that gave away his presence was a streak of white in his dark-brown hair. He wore leather armor, yet he managed to move without making a sound. He walked toward her slowly, his steps silent on the packed earth.

"Well, don't you have anything to say, girl?" he asked as he helped her down from the wall.

"I didn't think anyone saw me leave the square." Her voice faltered. She was none too happy about getting caught.

He smiled. "Only because I was watching for a move like that from one of the Chosen. Not all are happy with their new professions." He gave her an appraising look. "But you aren't one of the Chosen. You arrived yesterday from the wilderness with those others." It wasn't a question, just a statement of facts.

Sheila nodded, her heart sinking. '_Now I'll never get out of here_.'

"Now, truth be told, I really don't care why you're sneaking away. But I will tell you right now that you won't last out past those walls more than a few hours. Not without some kind of protection." His face was a mask but his gray eyes seemed to show real concern.

She sighed "I had protection not too long ago, but it came at too high a price. I gave it up." She hoped that this man didn't push for more answers.

To her relief he simply nodded. "Well, to start off, if you think I stopped you out of a kind heart, you're wrong. I did it for purely selfish reasons." His demeanor was more serious now and very business-like. "I'm a master in my profession, like those in the square. But unlike them," he added with a wry smile, "I can't exactly go to a Choosing. I'd be run out of town if they knew what I did." He made the exaggerated sigh of the long-suffering, and continued before Sheila could say anything. "However, like all masters, there comes with time a need to pass on what you know. I have that need, while you look like you need training."

Sheila felt as though she should take offense at that. '_But. . . .'_

"First, are you now under the teaching of a master?" Sheila realized that this was not the time to lie.

"I was under the guidance Dungeonmaster. My friends and I left him less than a week ago." Her voice held barely-controlled venom behind each word.

His mask fell for an instant, a mixture of shock and distaste causing his lips to twist into a sneer. Then it snapped back into place. Sheila wondered at what she had seen. "So you have no ties to him?" he asked.

"None."

He gave her a searching look, and seemed satisfied with what he saw. "I tell you now that I am a thief. I tell you this, for I may not take a student without giving them the knowledge of what I do. It wouldn't be. . . " that wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth again, ". . . ethical. Now, I see a lot of potential in you. Potential that would otherwise be wasted."

Sheila looked off into the night. For a moment she had been repulsed by the idea of a master, but she could not survive on her own. Thief was the name that HE gave her, no matter what she had wanted, but HE taught her nothing. Only her cloak had made her thief-like. This stranger offered her a chance to learn. She didn't know what she was getting into. But then, she thought darkly, neither did he. Amused by the conceit, she smiled a little. Perhaps when she became a thief, became one of the shadows, maybe she could enjoy the light again. If not, the darkness was wide and secret and big enough to hide in forever.

She squared her shoulders, looking the stranger straight in the eyes. "I would willingly learn all the skills you would like to teach me. If you would take me as your student."

He gave a warm, friendly smile, and placed his right hand on her shoulder. "Then I take you. . . .what is your name girl?"

"Sheila," she told him.

"Then I take you, Sheila, as my apprentice in all things that I may teach you. Now, as your master, I, Randale, instruct you to say goodbye to your friends so that we may leave in the morning."

"Can't we just leave now?" she asked him. She really didn't want to face them.

"No," he said firmly. "You must take your leave of them so that they will not search for you. Do you understand?"

Sheila slowly nodded, and he smiled again. "Don't worry. I'll be with you. Now that you're my apprentice, they can't cage you."

...

To her surprise she wasn't the only one that had been approached by a master. Presto, who was talking with Eric, had a middle-aged woman hovering protectively behind him. He didn't look very happy, but seemed otherwise okay. Hank, eyes bright with interest, was talking to a woodsman with a bow at least five feet long, while Diana spoke animatedly with a woman dressed in a combination of chain and leather armor. They all turned as she approached.

"I was worried about you," Hank said as she neared the group.

"I was taking a walk. I see that you've made a new friend," she said quickly, changing the subject.

Hank smiled as he looked over to the woodsman. "This is Donovan. He said he would like to take me as his apprentice." He frowned, torn. "I wasn't sure if I should or not."

"Why not?" she asked. "It sounds perfect for you."

"It's hard to think about leaving you right now," his voice raw with concern. Then he turned to the rest of his friends. "Leaving all of you."

She smiled at him, her own pain fading a little at his words. "Don't worry, Hank. I've been approached too. I was coming over to tell you, and to say goodbye."

"Goodbye? Just like that?" Hank's voice cracked a little.

She took his hand and pulled Hank aside, lowering her voice so that only he could hear her. "I need time, Hank. Time to heal. Away from all of you. Just being together hurts so much I can hardly stand it. Please understand. You're my friends; I love all of you. But I need this. I think we all do."

He looked as though he was going to protest, but he remained silent. When she was finished he lowered his head, closed his eyes, and nodded. When he looked up again, there were tears in his eyes. He caught her up in a fierce embrace. "Take care of yourself, then," he whispered to her. Then he let her go.

Sheila then made her farewell to the rest of her friends. It was a painful set of goodbyes, telling them each that she knew what she was doing, and not to worry. But that pain was overshadowed by the loss she still felt. This man behind her was the only thing that didn't hurt when she thought about him.

She walked with Randale from the square to the inn, following him up to the sleeping room where he motioned for her to take one of the bunks.

"We'll be leaving very early, so get some sleep."

Sheila did as she was told. "Where will we be going?" she asked.

He smiled at her. He had a nice smile. "You will need to learn the tricks of the trade, girl. For that I need to get you some proper clothing and equipment."

She started to protest, but he stopped her. "Your clothes are far too bright, not to mention they're quite worn out." She looked down and saw for the first time her threadbare appearance. She flushed deeply.

"Not to worry. They'll last long enough." He took the next bunk, laying down with his face towards the door. It seemed as though he was asleep within moments. Sheila watched him for the few moments that she stayed awake.

She wondered how he showed up just when she was about to leave. Perhaps this was just one of those fateful meetings that she read about in stories. Whatever it was, she hoped that it was the right thing to do.

...

The next morning when the others awoke, Sheila was gone.

* * *

"But, Hank, what about Eric?" Presto asked the next morning, concern filling his hazel eyes. "No one apprenticed him yesterday."

Eric frowned. He didn't think anyone had noticed that, and he was hoping they hadn't. "Hey," he said, puffing out his chest. "You don't need to worry about the old Cavalier. I know exactly what I'm doing."

Diana looked up from the bunk that she was making. "And what ARE you doing, Eric?"

He leaned against the doorframe. "Oh, I think I'll go find Tardos Keep. There's a merchant caravan headed straight there which leaves today. They owe us a few favors, and I intend to collect. I'll be relaxing in the Royal Palace and you all will be sweating your time away as apprentices, fetching water and polishing boots. Don't worry, I'll be sure to host a royal banquet if ever you're in town."

The whole story was a lie, of course. Tardos Keep stood seven hundred miles away, and the last time a merchant caravan went through this flyspeck town for there, Tiamat was still in her egg. But Eric refused to spoil the others' chances by telling them. He had made up his mind to look for training elsewhere. If someone had told him three years ago that he would willingly travel alone through dangerous territory rather than demanding help at any price from his friends, he would have had that person's head examined.

Diana smiled, her first since Bobby died. "That's our Eric." She picked up her small pack of possessions.

Presto shook his head, trying to concentrate despite the distracting blue halo surrounding Diana's head. "I don't know. Maybe I should go with you, Eric. I don't really want to be a healer anyway."

It was true. He didn't want to be a healer at all. Still, when Madelaine asked him to be her apprentice, he figured it was his best shot at fixing whatever was wrong with him without bothering the others. He couldn't exactly expect mighty wizards to show up looking for apprentices in little towns like this one.

Eric held out his hand. "No way. You'd just slow me down. That healer woman seems pretty nice, and she lives just outside the town. You can go do something useful. And I heard she was a good cook. What more could you need?" _ 'Besides,' _he thought, '_maybe doing something different will get your mind off all that magic stuff.'_

Hank stood up. "I think Eric's right for once, Presto. If he's found a merchant's caravan, he should be safe from here to Tardos. And if you're in Standwell, we'll all be able to meet back here to see each other. It will almost be like having a home again. The rest of us don't know where our new masters will take us, but Madelaine's house is just outside the walls, and she's not going anywhere. We'll be able to come back and visit or return if we get into trouble. She'll know some way to reach the rest of us." He laid a hand on Presto's shoulder. "Besides, Donovan said we'll only be going a couple of days' journey from here. It will be good to see a friendly face once in a while."

Presto bowed his head. They were right. It was the best thing for now; even more than they knew. Still, he didn't want to say goodbye again. Finally, he shrugged, keeping his eyes on the floor. He noticed with amusement that even that had a greenish tinge, washed out by the white light around Hank's boots. "I guess you're right. You can send messages to me with what you're doing. I can get the word out to you about how the others are. Maybe I'll even find out about where Sheila went." He looked over at Eric. "If you get in any trouble, Eric, just scream, okay? I'm sure we'll hear you from here." He grinned crookedly.

Eric smirked. "Believe me, if I see any more two-headed dragons or giant worms, you guys will be the first people I think of."


	3. Old Fears, New Fears

**Chapter 3: Old Fears, New Fears**

Detective Pendleton examined the expensive clock on the mantle while he waited for the men and women in the room to get settled. Not for the first time, he thought about getting out of the business. He could look down at the mutilated body of some poor punk dredged out of the river without a qualm, but the expression of despair and hope he saw on the faces of parents with missing children cut him to the bone. And there wasn't much hope they could get from him.

Turning from the fireplace, he looked across the lushly-appointed living room of the Montgomery estate. Officer Granger stood stoically by the door, ready to be called on at need. His uniform, meticulous down to the boots, was a silent reassurance to the civilians in the room: The law was there. It was doing its duty and everything was under control. If only Pendleton could be so sure.

The owner of the mansion sat in a dark burgundy chair, his long fingers steepled before him. He watched the detective with dark eyes and a thin-lipped frown. Steven Montgomery, as Pendleton had come to find out over the last three years, was a hard, reserved man unwilling to break himself free of the bottom line. What he was like before his son disappeared, the detective didn't know, but since then, he'd seen the well-known financier offer larger and larger rewards for information about his son, Eric. It never occurred to the man that some things could not be bought. Beyond a reward of nearly $500,000 dollars, though, it was hard to tell if he missed his son at all.

Professor Curry and his wife were not nearly as withdrawn. New hope shone in their faces as they sat together on a loveseat. The professor, an astronomer at the local university, had worked hard all his life to provide the best for his family. A slender man, with skin like chocolate and hair brushed with gray, he held his wife's hand as they whispered together. His wife Eileen, ten years his junior, had been one of his graduate assistants when they met. Pendleton shook his head. Ethan was a lucky man. And unlucky. Diana, from her file, apparently had inherited the best of both their traits.

Amanda Grayson had been a beauty, once, but now her stringy blonde hair was tied back from her face with a rubber band. She still wore her uniform from the supermarket as if she raced here straight from work. Her blue eyes looked tired, worn, and a little bloodshot. Pendleton knew from his informants that she joined AA two years ago; it was tears, not rum and coke, that reddened her eyes now. The mother of the oldest boy, Hank, her hands trembled as she lit a cigarette. '_Step nine. Make amends.' _He wondered if she would ever be able to ask her son for forgiveness.

The O'Brien's were the hardest to read. They had always been emotional people, but now they seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time, and were trying to stop both. Dan was an electrician; Margaret sold real estate. Nothing in their background to indicate any enemies who would want to get to them through their two children. Pendleton could understand their confusion. They had just gotten back the son they had thought lost forever, but their princess was still missing.

Pendleton looked around the room once more, then let out an uneasy sigh. He realized this, indeed, was everyone. Mr. and Mrs. Sydney had passed away within months of each other only last winter. After their grandson had disappeared, they lost the drive to push on. They had both been almost sixty when their daughter left her newborn with them and skipped town with a European musician. The heartbreak and strain of the last few years cost them their health and their lives. Pendleton wondered if anyone outside this room even cared if Andrew Sydney was alive any more.

The detective stepped forward. "Excuse me. As some of you are already aware, there has been a break in the case. Bobby O'Brien has been found." The silence belied hope's clarion call. "He has been found alive and healthy. He is currently at Mount Sinai Hospital for observation. I'd like to thank Mr. and Mrs. O'Brien for taking the time to leave his side so we can explain what our people have learned. We'll try and keep this short."

The Currys' hands clutched tightly to each other, but the light in both of their faces really told the tale. If one was alive, then maybe they all. . . "Diana?" Dr. Curry asked, his voice trembling.

Pendleton raised a hand. "No. He was found alone. Officer Phillip Granger here will explain the circumstances, and then I'll tell you where we've gone from there."

"I was running routine patrol on Route 240 outside the entrance to the amusement park when I noticed a number of people gathered on the grass bank on the side of the road. I stopped my car, got out, and saw they were standing around Bobby. He was lying on the ground, apparently unconscious. He was dressed in the clothes he had disappeared in. He couldn't have been out for long, because he started to come too before I'd even reached the scene. His face, arms, and legs were well scrapped up, as though he'd taken quite a fall, and he was bleeding a little from a wound on his head. At first, I figured he'd been knocked off a bike. I got him cleaned up and did a routine check against my missing children file. Sometimes you get lucky. Bobby O'Brien came right to the top of the list."

Margaret wiped away a sniffle. "That's when you called the police department and let us know?" she asked softly.

Granger nodded. "Yes ma'am. I also questioned a few witnesses. No one saw him get dropped off, but they did see a red minivan going down 240 at a high rate of speed around the time he was found. He may have been pushed from that vehicle. I couldn't find any other evidence at the site."

Pendleton took over. "Our doctors looked Bobby over when he was brought into the hospital. That's brought us a few insights. Wherever he's been, he's spent most of his time outdoors, probably in a desert or arid climate, from the extent of his tan. He hasn't been molested, but there is evidence of some physical abuse. Blood tests show that at some point, probably one and a half to two years ago, he was bitten by some sort of rattlesnake, but traces of the venom are too faint to be sent to a herpetologist. He was probably treated with an antivenom at the time.

The O'Brien's had not known about the results of the blood tests, and talked quietly among themselves. Pendleton let the families consider that for a moment before continuing. "He suffered some trauma to the head approximately a year and a half ago. X-rays show a healed fracture to the skull above the left temporal lobe, one that was re-broken during his recent fall. Although it does not seem that the injury was severe, even a temporary effect on blood flow in the brain can alter memory. Although Bobby appears to be fully recovered, it seems that this injury, or a reactivation of this injury caused by his fall has confused his perceptions of what happened to himself or his friends.

"When interviewed, Bobby said his sister and his friends were trying to escape through a rift from a place that the ride carried them too. He said they were always stopped by someone he calls 'Venger' and that someone else called 'Dungeonmaster' kept telling them ways to escape, but they never worked, and they continued to be trapped. He goes on to talk about their fantasy adventures. We, unfortunately, are forced to conclude that these are post-traumatic psychotic fantasies. Our psychologists are working at interpreting them."

* * *

The detective went on, rambling about child slavery rings in Mexico, hypnosis, doomsday cults, and stress-related dementia. All Amanda could think about was that last morning before Hank disappeared. He was a good boy, better than she deserved. . . .

"_Mom, I'm going to the Amusement Park with the others. Remember to take in your check."_

"_Don't stay out too late. You know how I worry." _

"_I won't. See you later, Mom."_

She shivered suddenly. Had Pendleton said something about a cave-in? She wasn't sure why, but she knew at that moment Hank was not going to come back. Not ever.

* * *

Eric did follow a merchant train after all his friends had left, but just to the next town. This town was much larger than Standwell, and Eric had heard that a company of mercenaries, The Red Blades, garrisoned there. Only a few months ago, he would have marched right up to the captain and demanded to be trained, but he knew better now. He would have to apply and, if there was someone willing, he would have to prove he was worth the trouble.

He approached the inn where the officers stayed with what he hoped was confidence, not arrogance. There was no guard at the door. He stood there for a moment, wondering if he should knock. Then he saw a rope by the door. When he pulled it a bell sounded inside. The door was opened a few moments later by a tall, muscular woman with auburn hair. She looked him over with what a well-practiced eye. He swallowed nervously.

"I take it you want to apply to the Blades." Her voice was smooth but deep; it carried the weight of authority.

"Yes... uh. . . if you would let me." Eric started to have some doubts, but he had to do something.

"Well, don't just stand there. Come on in." She lead the way inside without waiting to see if he would follow. He fell in behind her, and she went to the first door of a long hallway. Inside, a bedroom had been converted into a recruiting office, well organized and very professional. The woman took the seat behind the desk and motioned for him to take one of the seats closest to him.

"First, let me tell you that I see a lot of young men and women come through my door. Most of them didn't have a lick of training. Others had enough to get themselves killed." She looked him over again. "But you have got to be the first person to come here straight out of the wilds in one piece. So tell me what brings you to my door."

Eric gave her a wary look. "It's a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it? I mean, I wouldn't want to bore you or anything."

"The more I know of you, the better I'll be able to gage your ability." Eric took a deep breath and told her his story. Everything. Even the bit with the bogbeasts. And Queen Zinn. '_I must be crazy,' _he thought, for the ten millionth time.

She listened carefully as he spoke. Her face was neutral through the whole thing, save for her right eyebrow, which lifted on occasion. When he was done there was a long silence. "Well..." she began, "I must admit I never thought I would have another one of His students in front of me." She was thoughtful for a moment. "It is our custom to have those that don't have their own equipment work for it before they get any training. You look to be worn ragged and already physically fit. Despite the wealth of your armor, I bet you haven't got two coins to rub together."

He nodded, his heart sinking. '_Don't suppose she'd take a fifty dollar bill and call it even.'_

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time I let in a hard luck case." She smiled at his look of astonishment. "Don't get too cheerful yet."

"Why not?" Eric asked, his excitement building.

"First, regardless of you experience in the wilds, you'll be given the standard training all new recruits get in the art of survival. Second, since you'll need as much training as possible, I think we will forego the fortnight of work detail. But to do that, you have to do one thing." She paused, making sure she had his attention. "I want you to sell your armor. It worth enough to outfit you with all the equipment that you'll need, and to last you some time in good stead, I would say."

"You know, I never even thought to sell it." he said, absently toying with a gauntlet. "I've lived in this stuff for almost four years. You would think that I wouldn't want to part with it." He laughed a soft sad laugh.

"There is something else to consider", she began thoughtfully. "That armor would set you apart from your fellows. If you let me sell it you'll be on equal footing with them."

"I certainly don't want to be snubbed by my peers." He chuckled a little at the irony of that, and pulled off both gauntlets. "Sell it. Maybe some distance from my past will help me build a future."

* * *

Xalen grinned at her new apprentice, leaning against her own staff. "All right. You've proven to me that you are more than capable of handling a staff. I'm impressed. How's the arm?"

Diana initially pulled her right forearm against her body to protect it, but, with a conscious effort she turned it outward to show her teacher. The thick, black mark of the fresh tattoo twisted from elbow to wrist like a stylized serpent. It still felt painful and raw, but nothing like it had at first. It was healing well. "It's fine," she answered. "It hardly hurts at all any more."

"We need to get you some throwing knives. And a second change of clothes. Do those boots fit?"

Diana looked down at her new, thigh-high leather boots, and the crisp white tunic she wore belted above them. "Just great, Xalen. Hey, can I go into town with you to get the knives? I want to stop by the healer's house and check to make sure Presto's settling in all right. Maybe he knows how the others like what they are doing."

Her master frowned, looking thoughtful. Her own dark tattoos were artificial shadows in her tanned skin. The bright morning sun picked up the highlights in her corn-yellow braids; she looked as though she had just gone out for the day, rather than tutoring her apprentice for three hours. Diana couldn't believe the way she never broke a sweat. "Very well, Diana. I need to make some arrangements anyway. But you should know we are leaving tomorrow, far to the south. A strong warrior does not test her metal against stray troglodytes in lands such as this. In the last two weeks, you've gained a little skill, and proven to me that I do not need to hold your hand EVERY step of the way. It's time to leave these civilized parts and find something a little more exciting to do."

Diana slung the staff over her shoulder and started down the road towards the town. She agreed the constant drills were boring. But if she was leaving town, then she really was leaving everyone. Still, she had to wonder what her new master thought was exciting.

...

Presto was on his hands and knees in the garden in front of Madelaine's cottage, pulling weeds. He didn't seem to notice Diana as she approached. He was dressed in a simple blue shirt and brown pants, his red-brown curls drenched with sweat. The garden was as lush as a jungle, and Diana decided that it must be hard to figure out which was a weed or an herb in a garden that size.

"Hey there, Presto!" she called, and couldn't help but grin at the way he started when he heard his name.

Recovering himself quickly, Presto climbed to his feet and pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Hi, Diana," he said with a warm smile. "I didn't see you there. How's it going?"

Diana idly spun her staff, looking hard at the ex-magician. Somehow, in the last two weeks, he'd grown a lot paler, except for the spots of color in his cheeks, and his face looked drawn. But his eyes bothered her most. Nothing had changed, but they didn't seem to be looking at her. He was focused on some point over her right shoulder. She glanced back, but there was nothing there.

"I've been doing just fine. Xalen's great. She takes training very seriously, but at night we talk, and she tells me all about all the places she's been over the years. I feel like I can almost do as much with a regular staff as I could with my old one when I'm around her." Presto looked away at that, and she hurried on, "But I still get it wrong half the time. How are things here?"

"Oh, all right, I guess. Mostly, Madelaine's been telling me all about her plants. And I weed. And prune. And sometimes dig. Lots of digging. Remember the giant worms in the Garden of Zinn?"

Diana nodded. She could tell he was trying to distract her from something. "I remember the look on Eric's face when he first saw one."

Presto grinned and picked up a smaller worm from the ground at his feet. "Well, we're getting much better acquainted." He let the worm fall.

Diana smiled at the joke, but her face turned serious. She took a step closer. "Presto, are you feeling OK? She's not mistreating you or anything, is she?"

Presto's eyes wandered up towards an area of clear blue sky above Diana's head. "Me? Oh, I'm fine. I think I caught a little bit of a cold. I. . . ." His eyes widened. "Get down!" he shouted, diving towards Diana to knock her to the ground.

The two of them tumbled through the flowerbed together, landing at the bottom of the hedge. Diana hurriedly crawled out from under Presto and brandished her staff. "What, Presto? Where?" She looked around wildly, trying to locate the enemy, but the day was as clear and pleasant as it had been a moment before.

Presto pulled himself up, looking around wildly. "Venger, he. . . ." He paused as he realized that Venger was nowhere to be seen. "I thought I saw. . . I. . . ." He closed his eyes as he got to his feet. "Sorry, Diana. Guess it's been so long since we've seen him, I started imagining him. At least he's less scary than my old gym teacher. Are you okay?"

'_Me? What about you?'_ Diana thought, settling her staff butt into the ground. "I'm just fine. Maybe you should take it easy for a while, my friend. I wish I could stay, but my master is leaving tomorrow, and I need to catch her before she disappears. Are you sure everything's all right?"

"Of course." Presto smiled, shrugged, and gave her a hug before she left. When she was gone from sight, he looked accusingly back at the patch of sky that had opened up to reveal Venger preparing to hurl a bolt of magic down onto them both. "Okay, Presto. If you have to see things that aren't there, why can't you pick some better face than that one? At least while THEY'RE around? Huh?"

Madelaine came out from her house into the garden. "Did it happen again?"

Presto nodded.

Madelaine walked up to the boy, and put her beefy arm around his shoulders. "You don't have to be out here, pet. My garden is perfectly capable of tending itself. I'm sure I can find a good book inside, and I have fresh peach pie."

Presto just nodded a second time, allowing himself to be led into the house.


	4. Lost

**Chapter 4: Lost **

"This was a stupid idea! What kind of moron talked me in to this?" Eric complained under the tender ministrations of a green, scaly lizardman.

The lizardman laughed, a strange, hissing sound. "I don't sssthink that anyone talked you into sssssssssticking around waiting to be hit with thisssss arrow, Errrrric." He pulled the bandage tight, and passed the arrow to Eric for an example. "Isssss not bad."

A deep chuckle came from behind him, and a voice said, "And if you meant who talked you into joining a band of mercenaries, I don't think Tesarra would take you if you couldn't come up with that excellent idea all on your own."

Eric reached out, and Stathis and Corman hauled him to his feet. Corman passed him his leather and chain shirt, and helped him pull it on. The half-elf was a good head taller than Eric, and held him easily. The pair had been the first to greet the young man when he was introduced, after Corman calmed him down at the sight of the lizardman. Eric hadn't realized how many non-human mercenaries there were, but these two had become his fast friends.

The last month and a half had pushed Eric further than he ever had been before. He'd had time to get into shape over the last two years. However, learning to use a sword was tough, if you could call the padded bats they had been given swords. He had had to get a shield, even just a wooden one, because no matter what the grizzled veteran who taught him tried, he always blocked incoming blows with his left arm. Some of the other raw recruits laughed, and asked him where he learned to hide so well, but they were soon looking to him for training with their own shields. Not getting hit did have its advantages.

Other than the problem with the shield, he had been doing very well, if he had to say so himself. He could ride. He was learning how to fight. When the captain learned he could actually read, he got signed up for basic strategy and tactics lessons after dinner. Literate men were not common among the mercenaries. Then it was off to work on cleaning and repairs until he collapsed into bed.

All in all, a surprisingly pleasant life.

The one thing he wasn't sure about was the killing. He had never killed anything in his life, even after all the time spent on this world. One night, while working oil into his brigandine coat, he asked the older mercenaries about it.

Corman said "Don't worry about it, my friend. Anyone can kill. It's why and when you do that's important."

Two weeks ago, Tesarra announced the recruits were ready for the long march to the Red Blade headquarters outside Darkcruigh. There, the recruits would winter and train, getting ready to be sent out as soon as next spring. The captain wanted his money's worth out of the men.

The long march had worn them down, and it became clear that every faction regarded the raw mercenary troops as a chance to acquire new weapons and armor. Today had been the first real action. The band was fording a river when a small group of hidden bowmen, bullywogs from the sounds of them, started to fire. It didn't take more than a good charge and some sword-waving to chase them away, but Eric took a wood-tipped arrow in the thigh during the initial assault. Fortunately, it wasn't barbed. It sure hurt like crazy, though.

As the dark-haired young man stretched out in his blankets , he wistfully thought of Tardos Keep, and even more wistfully of the friends he had left behind, wherever they were.

* * *

Madelaine found him in the garden, collapsed beside a bed of marigolds. "It's time to come in, my duck," she said softly. "It's going to rain." She lifted him gently and pulled him into the cottage.

* * *

Hank's arm was sore and his fingers burned, but the zombies still came forward, oblivious the rain of arrows. Despite training with Donovan for six weeks, he still hated it when he had to pull out the foot-long dagger at his side. At least these were zombies. It was harder to feel guilty about killing beings which were already dead, and it was most often the dead who tried to tear into the flesh of the living these days. Hank hadn't quite realized the challenge of keeping the roads clear so often included fighting to protect unwary travelers. He was learning fast.

The tiny merchant caravan was surrounded by the blotchy gray bodies of the zombies, though many of them had already sunk back into the mud on either side of the road to return to their slumber. Donovan was charging down to help the caravan guards with the remaining six, his long sword flashing in the torchlight. Hank drew his knife, ducked under a zombie's blind grasp, and slashed his blade across the dead thing's torso. It retreated before him, and another thrust convinced it to return to its grave.

Hank was turning back to the caravan when he heard the voice call out, "Hank! Duck!"

Hank dived and rolled, the tree branch wielded by a zombie behind him whistling over his head. He kicked hard at the zombie's knees, and heard a brittle bone shatter. The ranger got to his feet and kicked the zombie again, frowning sternly. It crawled off to the side of the road and back into the bubbling mire. Hank climbed to his feet and picked up his bow, looking for the source of the voice. Donovan had finished the last of the zombies at the caravan, and was not even looking towards him. '_Who, then?'_

A greenish glow shone just over the brow of the hill ahead, and Hank walked towards it cautiously. His eyes widened.

"Presto? What are you doing here? This road is dangerous." His friend knelt in the roadway, his head down, and green light shone all around him. As Hank got closer, he realized his friend was transparent, a ghost in the darkness. Presto unsteadily clambered to his feet.

"H. . . Hank? Is that really you?" Hank's friend sounded weak and unsure. He managed to stand, but swayed dangerously. Hank got a good look at him, and, if his transparency made him seem ghostly, his pale, drawn features made him more so. His eyes darted around, bright with fever, and he was shaking. Hank sheathed his dagger.

"What's wrong, Presto? Are you sick? Trapped somehow? Where are you?" Hank tried to reach out to steady him, but his fingers passed right through.

"I was in the garden. Hank. . . I'm sorry but I. . . I. . . .don't feel so good. And I can't get back. Please don't leave me alone. Please. . . .I don't want to die here all by myself. . . ." Another shiver racked the translucent form and the light began to fade. With the light, the definition began to fall into darkness.

"Wait. . . just hold on for two days, Presto! I promise I'll be there in two days!" Hank reached out, but the light faded completely, and the only sound was the night winds and murmurs from the caravan. Hank turned and ran back to the wagons.

Donovan was speaking to the leader of the merchant guard. "It was very foolish to be on this road at night. Where were you bound?"

The merchant guard shrugged. "We're headed with furs to Tardos Keep. There hasn't been a caravan from this part of the world to Tardos for three hundred years. It is a market ripe for the taking for the first caravan to get through."

That struck a chord with Hank, but he couldn't think about it now. He had to get back to Madelaine's. "Donovan! I need to go, tonight! My friend's in trouble, and I have to help him."

Donovan turned towards his apprentice. In the last month and a half, despite all the training, the exhaustive lessons in bowmanship, fighting, and woodlore, his master rarely said three words together. Still, Hank knew he was a good man. Since boyhood, he had learned the lore of the woods. Hank also suspected he'd done more than guide merchants through the forest in his time. "I see. Where?"

"Standwell. I have to go. My friend needs me."

"Return with the moon." To offset his harsh words, Donavon handed Hank his own quiver, and the bag of food from his shoulder. The young man appreciated the gesture; hunting and gathering up his arrows would take time. He liked this tall, dark, silent man. "Watch. Rain's coming."

"I'll be careful. And I will be back. I promise." He slung his bow over his shoulder, and hurried up the road towards the town of Standwell. '_Just hang on, Presto. Two days. . . .'_

* * *

"Awake the Camp! To Arms!" The call radiated from the camp's left flank, to be repeated by every man as they grabbed their swords. It might not be a true threat but letting an enemy catch you in your bed was fatal.

The commander's voice split through the cacophony of drawn swords and labored breath. Sharp eyes peered out to the darkness. "What is it, Nightwatch?"

Eric blinked sleep out of his eyes and drew his sword, leaning heavily on his good leg. He strained to hear what the Nightwatchman was telling the band's commander.

"A spirit, Sir. Or a ghost. We believe the latter. There was a green light radiating from those trees over there. Corman went to investigate, and saw the undead standing just beyond the line of the trees. Per standing orders, he awakened the camp." The Nightwatchman's voice sounded like the appearance of ghosts, skeletons, or zombies was standard procedure for the troop, but Eric couldn't think of anything standard about dead people not staying that way.

He heard the sound of rustling through the camp, and looked over his shoulder to see Corman run past him to meet with the commander. The half-elf breath came out in ragged gasps, but he regained composure quickly. "Sir? The being has disappeared. We have searched the entire perimeter of the camp but can't see a trace of him."

The commander's head was silhouetted against the firelight, and Eric saw him nod gravely. "Very well. It was probably some poor lost spirit trying to get to wherever it is he belongs." He raised his voice, so the order rang across the camp. "Stand down! Back to standard watch."

Eric gratefully laid his sword and shield down next to him and crawled back into his bedroll. It didn't feel like anything evil was about. Still, the idea of a ghost wandering around the camp made him feel even colder, and he couldn't shut his eyes. When Corman returned to his blankets, Eric was still awake. He inched closer to the tall mercenary.

"So. . . what did you see?" he whispered.

Corman shrugged. "A ghost. Just like any ghost, I suppose."

"Yeah, but what did it look like?" Eric's voice betrayed a little nervousness, but he tried to keep it under tight control.

"Short. A young human, and no warrior, I suppose." Corman pulled the blankets up around his shoulders. "Dressed in blue and brown, I think, with brown hair and eyes. Nothing special. Well, except for being dead." He chuckled softly at his own joke. "He glowed with green light, and you could see right through him. His face was pale like death, too. . . .if I saw a man on the street like that, I'd consider rifling his pockets. He certainly wouldn't be using his coin for long."

Eric shifted uncomfortably at the image. "Did he say anything?"

"Nothing, really. He just asked me how to get home."

Eric relaxed. The ghost hardly sounded dangerous, and the spirit's loss resonated with his own. A home for a ghost must be nearly as far away as his. Before falling asleep, he mumbled, "Good luck, Ghost. Sounds like you need it."

* * *

Somewhere in the darkness, Tiamat opened an eye.

* * *

Donovan was right. By sunrise, the rain came down in sheets, and it didn't stop. By noon, the road turned to pure mud, and the wagon ruts became streams flowing to either side of the track. The rain plastered Hank's hair to his head and blinded him as it ran into his eyes. Above, lightening crashed, brightening to incandescence the gray sky. Hank had to stop for a moment to unstring his bow; he'd be no good in a fight if the string snapped because of the wet. He twice had to leave the road completely where it washed out.

'_Maybe someone else is closer,'_ Hank thought, breaking his way through the undergrowth. '_Maybe he didn't just get me.' _He would never let the others down, but they weren't here. '_And Presto. . . .'_ He shook his head abruptly. No, he would get there, in two days. Just like he promised.

He reached the Talon River, and found to his dismay that the bridge had washed out. The rail, however, still clung determinedly just above the swirling, muddy river. Hank paused at the side of the river. "I'll never make it," he said aloud. "That thing is ready to break away any moment." There was another bridge, larger, and further above the water level, but it was a half-day downstream in good weather. If he tried to get there, it would put at least another day to his travel. He looked at the river, then up at the lightening-wracked sky in frustration. "I'd never make it in two days anyway. Not with this rain."

Hank turned south. But after walking about ten feet, he gave a shout of worry and frustration, and pounded back towards the narrow bridge. He splashed his way to the edge nearest the rail and leaped, grabbing for it before the current pulled him away. His fingers clambered at the wet, splintering wood. . . .slipped. . . and finally held true. The current tugged at him like he was a doll, and the rain was heavy enough that he could hardly tell when he was under water or above it. But he hung on.

Slowly, he inched his way along the rail, hand over hand. He almost lost his grip twice, but managed to regain it again. After what seemed like years, he reached the eastern bank and crawled up on shore.

Soaking wet, shivering with cold, he checked his bow and knife, took a deep breath, and again strode through the rain towards the town of Standwell, and the person who had asked him to come.

* * *

"I've got them!" Diana yelled, waving the shining blue gemstone in one hand, a six-foot long spear in the other. "Let's go!"

"No! Wait for me at the entrance. The bounty is also for that roper, and I'm not leaving without it!" Xalen turned, and ran back into the shallow cave. Diana leaned against the entrance, clutching the spear to her as she waited for the sounds of fighting within the depths of the cavern.

The village of Heertag had been suffering severe drought for weeks, ever since a new creature had taken residence in the village shrine and killed the Guardian of the Stormgem. Diana quickly discovered that Xalen made most of her living taking care of such problems in exchange for whatever treasure the creatures accumulated. The pair had stolen into the underground shrine to take the Stormgem back. But that was not enough for Xalen. Diana began to hear the sound of grunts, and a strange inhuman wail as her mentor started the fight. She tucked the Stormgem into her pouch and kept a tight grip on the spear, just in case.

'_Now, what's that?'_ Diana noticed a green glow begin to coalesce in the half-light of the cavern's entrance. But before she could investigate, she heard a shout from deep within the cave.

"Diana!" Her mentor's voice did not sound frightened, but there was enough urgency in it that the young woman forgot all about wandering green lights to go running back into the cave. Xalen had never cried out before.

She found Xalen clutched in one of the four, long tentacles of a pillar-like being, almost obscured by the darkness of the cavern. The thing's tiny eyes shone with an eerie red light as it examined her master's javalin. Xalen struggled weakly against it, but her efforts failed to pull her out of the monster's grasp.

The cavern had housed a small shrine before the Roper moved in. The still bright wall murals depicted scenes of orchards and flowing fields of grain. A pedestal in the middle of the cavern once housed the Stormgem still shone with decorative gold plating. There was a bed to one side, neatly made, that once belonged to the guardian, but the guardian would no longer be using it. His naked skull leered from a pile of bones against one wall of the cavern. There were more bones scattered about – villagers who had gone up to the shrine before they realized that its guardian had failed. Some of the bodies were fresh. Diana could smell the rotten-sweet fruit from their last offering.

"Let her go!" she shouted, brandishing the spear she had found. She did not anticipate a response from a monster that looked like a large stalagmite with tentacles. She got one.

"Why should I?" The voice sounded like ancient stone, filled with malice. "I did not attack you or even this one until I was attacked."

"I said, let her go!" Diana waved the weapon threateningly. The fine steel of the blade flashed in the dim light. "If you let her go we'll. . . ."

"No, Diana!" Xalen shouted, trying anew to worm out of the Roper's grip. "Use the guardian's spear! Kill it! The bounty!" She was cut off abruptly as it wrapped another tentacle around her mouth.

"I shall let her go, if you leave and do not return. You have the Stormgem. You can have this one, despite the grievous hurt she did me. Just go." The thing did seem injured. One tentacle hung at its side limply.

The weight of the stone above her seemed oppressive. All Diana wanted to do was get out into the free air and run. But all around her, the hollow eyes of the dead seemed to follow her and she could not escape their gaze. She leveled her spear and frowned. The darkness of the tattoos that wound down her forearms seemed to merge with the ebony of its shaft. Finally, she came to a decision.

"Did you kill these people?" Her voice was like iron, and her dark eyes would not be swayed. Xalen struggled in the monster's grasp.

The tiny red eyes blinked once, and then it finally replied with a rumbling voice, "They were my prey. But that is no concern of yours."

"Are you sorry?" Diana took a step nearer. It slid back a bit, confused. When Diana took another step forward, it threw Xalen aside.

"I return her. Let me be!"

Diana bit off the words. "Will you kill again?" She waited, but the roper had no reply. The evidence was about her.

Diana thrust. The spear plunged into monster's center, cleaving through its leathery skin. Tentacles waved in the air, and it collapsed in on itself like a deflating balloon. Diana's eyes were cold as she yanked the spear free, and the words she said were for her mentor. "I will not kill for bounty, for you, or even for myself, if I can help it. But I will kill for justice. Don't ask me to kill again."

She slung the spear over her shoulder and walked back to the cavern entrance. By the time she got there, the green light was gone.

* * *

Hank reached Standwell at noon. The storm had lifted by late afternoon on the first day, and now the overcast sky showed patches of blue. His wet leathers creaked as he walked, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be dry again, but he didn't slow as he rounded the town walls. He did pause to restring his bow as he approached the healer's cottage, and took a wary look around.

The garden bloomed furiously; life, still damp and fresh from the recent rain, spilled out of every bed. Flowers of orange, red, and gold bloomed, and beans and cabbages were lined up in neat rows. Other than that, the garden was empty. Hank opened the gate and made his way down the narrow path to Madelaine's cottage. Smoke came out of the chimney, despite the day's warmth, but everything else seemed normal. Bundles of herbs hung drying in the windows. Hank knocked on the door.

The short, middle-aged woman cracked open the door to peek out. When she saw it was Hank, she threw the door open wide and wrapped him in her embrace. "Ah, it's you! And all soaked to the bone too! Please, come in. He's inside."

Hank loosened his grip on his bow, but he didn't set it aside as he ducked into the Healer's cottage. Sunlight filtered through the light curtains, and the fragrance of drying herbs, spicy and sweet together, filled the air. The cottage had only three rooms, but here, in the main room, a fire burned in the fireplace, a pot over it filled with what looked like laundry. A table and chairs sat near the fire, separating the body of the room from a small, cast-iron oven and some cabinets. On the other side of the room, there was a rocking chair, a stool, and an occupied cot.

Madelaine led Hank towards the cot where his friend lay, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. Blood red lips and cheeks stood out against his pale skin and he shivered beneath layers of blankets. "Please, sit." she said, offering Hank the stool by the bedside. "Can I bring you a cup of tea, or something to eat? You look like a drowned gweekan." She bustled over to the oven to heat some water and fetch a blanket.

Hank lowered his bow to the floor. "I'm here, Old Buddy," he said softly to the unconscious form. "Now what?" The magician did not move.

"He's been like this for almost four days now," the healer said, opening a canister full of tea. "I found him in the garden, poor duckling. Not that this hasn't been coming for quite a while. Long overdue, too, I think."

Hank looked down at his friend. He was bitterly reminded of the time they almost lost Bobby in Zinn. "He's so sick. Where's the cure, Madelaine? I'll go wherever I have to. . . ."

"Not even The Dungeonmaster could heal this," Madelaine said, bringing Hank a cup of steaming tea. "There is no cure. This is a part of him, and to interfere with its course would mean his death. Right now, he has a chance, however slim."

"Then what's wrong with him? You're supposed to be a healer. . . what's the matter?" He sank down on the stool next to Presto's bedside, looking at the Healer helplessly.

"You have not heard of the tests?" Hank shook his head. Madelaine fetched a blanket and draped it around his shoulders. "Well," she said as she sat in her rocking chair, "Maybe we can enlighten each other, because I have a few questions of my own. Have you ever wondered why there were so few magicians? With magic, we could protect our crops, shelter our houses, heat our water, and even keep the dragons at bay. We could hide ourselves from the likes of Venger, for a time. What good mage would not want to teach his skill to as many as he could to protect his lands and people?"

"I guess I hadn't thought of that." Hank took a sip of the tea but his eyes never left Presto's face.

Madelaine leaned forward, her dark eyes clouded. "The reason there are so few magicians, my lad, is because so few manage to pass the tests of magic. Only one in a hundred is born with the gift of magic flowing in his or her veins, and of them, only one in a hundred survive their first test. Most of those born with the gift die before the age of twelve."

"Then Presto is. . . .." Hank's eyes widened, and he leaned forward.

The healer nodded. "Yes. This is the first test. His spirit and his body have separated. Unless they reconcile quickly, he shall die."

"But when he tried his magic after giving up that hat, it didn't work. Well, except when he cast that one spell in Merlin's castle. Besides, he's seventeen, not twelve." She had to be wrong. There had to be something he could do to save him.

"For some reason, the test was delayed in him. You say he cast a spell before this?" Madelaine leaned forward, her eyes brightening with curiosity.

Hank considered for a moment, and then decided he had to trust this woman. Maybe if she knew the full truth, she'd be able to help. "We don't come from this land," he said cautiously. "In the land we do come from, there isn't any magic. But since we came here, Presto's cast all kinds of spells. They never exactly worked right all the time, but they helped us out of a jam more times than I can count."

Madelaine rocked back. "A different world. Well, the tests shouldn't begin, then, until he got to this world. But that must have been some time ago. And they definitely would have started if he was actually trying to use his magic. You mentioned a hat?"

Hank smiled sadly, and lightly touched Presto's shoulder. Presto twitched and mumbled something that Hank couldn't quite make out, but did not open his eyes. "When we got here, Dungeonmaster gave each of us a magic weapon. Presto's was a hat. He could pull just about anything out of it. But it didn't always work right, and sometimes it didn't really do anything at all." He took a deep breath, and added, "Once, when Venger took the hat, Presto cast a spell from Merlin's spell book. But Eric told me before he left that he tried a couple of times to cast spells after he gave the hat back, and nothing happened. We all figured that he couldn't do magic at all any more. No one can, from our world."

Madelaine's eyes cooled noticeably at the mention of Dungeonmaster, and Hank realized, for the first time, that there was a lot more to her than met the eye. "I see," she said. "I think, then, that this explains much. The Dungeonmaster gave him a magical focus, but it arrested his natural development as a mage. It may not have worked correctly all the time because his natural powers were conflicting with its inherent powers, causing unpredictable results. What spell did he cast when he did not have the hat?"

"He banished all the dragons from Haven." Hank pushed down a wave of guilt. If he hadn't given back the hat, Presto wouldn't be suffering like this. Still. . .

"Oh, by the gods of light," Madelaine whispered, raising her hands to her cheeks. "Such power. . . ." She abruptly stood. "My boy, I need to go out in the garden and cut some herbs. Keep the fire going, and give him water from the jug on the table if he ever wakes enough to drink it. I shall be back soon." She hurried for the door, gathering a basket and scissors on the way.

After she left, Hank looked down at his friend. "Come on, Presto. Come on back."


	5. Where the Heart Lies

**Chapter 5: Where the Heart Lies**

Bobby groaned. "Oh, no. Not her again."

Mrs. Kresky walked into the room, a legal pad in one hand and a cheery smile on her face. "So, Bobby. How are you feeling?"

Of all the many psychologists he had seen, he hated this one the most. It didn't matter what he said, how much he tried to convince her of the truth. She wouldn't budge. She wouldn't be swayed. And, he finally realized, she was just like everyone else. No one was going to help get Sheila and the others home. No one believed him. No one ever would. How could they? They figured they knew all the answers anyway. He'd been asked about, what? Slaves in Mexico? Caves in Nevada? They were all nuts.

Still, it was good to be home. He didn't realize until he got back just how much he missed his mother and father. And pizza. And cartoons. There was a part of him that missed home even more than Eric did. After Uni left., the only thing he wanted in his whole life was to get back home. He'd rather die than admit it, though. He was no baby.

Then there was Terry. She knew; she realized it was all true when she first saw him walk around the corner with her locket in hand. She was the one who had convinced him what he should say at this point. What he had to do. Part of it grated against his nerves, but the truth was, no one was going to help the others get back. It would take the magic of the Realm to get them out, and no police detective or even nuclear physicist was going to be able to do it for them. He saw his mom and dad hurting so much, even more whenever he tried to tell them what really had happened. No, this was the only way.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Kresky. I. . . .I wanted to talk to you today."

"Oh, Bobby? What would you like to talk about?" She settled down in the wing-backed leather chair in her office. Bobby was reminded of the Demon Sorceress that Diana blasted. That brought a grim smirk to his lips.

"I was thinking about what we talked about yesterday." '_And the day before and the day before that.' _"About it really being a car, not the ride. We did, sorta, tell some stories to try and cheer each other up, you know. Not that I was scared or anything, but it was a lot better to listen to the others' stories than to, you know, think about what was really happening." Sheila would wash his mouth out with soap.

"Then there was a car? And you were driven out of the park?" The psychiatrist leaned forward on her seat with anticipation.

Bobby made himself nod.

The battery of questions continued, and Bobby let himself give whatever answers the psychologist seemed to want to hear. No, he didn't know The Dungeonmaster's real name. Yes, he had to work, and had to sleep outside sometimes. No, he didn't know where he was. Yes, the cave in happened about a year and a half before. No, he didn't know if the others made it out alive.

Saying that was the worst part, because it was true. He couldn't tell, in all the falling stone, if the others had made it out of the cave alive. Still, they had beaten Venger, and Kelek, and Demodragon, and a rather nasty giant with a Brooklyn accent. They'd definitely find a way to get out of some dumb old cave. Bobby wouldn't be surprised if the rest of them showed up tomorrow, through some other portal. But, until then, everyone would feel better listening to his lies. They'd do until his sister came home.

* * *

He was running, and his breath burned in his lungs as he pounded up the gray stone steps. The sky above flashed orange and green and blue, fading and coalescing into a hundred images he couldn't understand. A magical bolt shattered the stone just in front of him, and the black, winged shadow blotted out half the sky. Venger. Behind him, following, he could hear the sound of a great army of orcs, howling for his blood.

Sticky threads erupted out of the ground, wrapping around him, holding him in place for the army to come sweeping over him. He yanked hard to raise his head, and saw Dungeonmaster, smiling while instructing the tendrils to hold fast. Behind him, an old man with a long, gray beard laughed at him. He tried to pull free.

There was a glimmer of a knife in the shadows, but he couldn't see who was carrying it. It sliced through the threads. Sheila's voice, sweet yet hard as ice, said, "It is no longer your concern." But he didn't wait. He ran.

His heart was pounding in his ears as he continued to race up the steps. Above him, he saw Eric, dressed in bright plate mail, mounted on a horse with a sword and shield. "You have to help me, Eric!" he called out. He stumbled towards him. "Venger's after me. You've got to show me how to get out of here. How do I get back home?" Eric, however, didn't seem to see him at all. Behind him was a mounted flank of cavalry, somehow spread across a giant landing on the stairs. They were all gazing over his head. He turned to see what they were looking at. Diana. She was dressed in white, and carried a long spear in her hand. An elegant tattoo curved around her eye, and others ran down her arms. "Diana, please!" Behind her, an army of footmen bearing pikes leveled their weapons. He heard Eric's voice call, "Attack! For the princess!" He had to dive out from between the hooves of the cavalry as they charged, the sound thundering in his head. He crawled away from the attack as the battle was engaged.

Somehow, the mass of fighting men and horses blocked Venger's army of orcs, and he could stop to catch his breath. As he wheezed on the stairs, he felt an icy cold hand laid on his shoulder. He whirled, and there stood a black-robed, skeletal figure wearing a crown of steel. He tried to wriggle away, but the skeleton's grip was strong, twisted in his shirt. The skeleton pointed, and his eyes were drawn to look. A portal opened up before him, swirling with the colors of the amusement park. He could make out the arc of the ferris wheel.

It was reflex. It had been so long, he'd searched so hard, and he was suddenly hit with such a tremendous home-sickness. '_The way home. . . .' _He took a step towards the opening, and the skeleton released him. A few more steps, and he was running. He plunged through the portal. . . ..

* * *

Just after midnight, Hank was drifting towards an exhausted sleep when an inescapable feeling of horror overwhelmed him. His eyes flared open, his hand reflexively reaching towards his bow. However, the cottage was silent. Too silent. He bent over Presto's still form, but failed to feel the puff of breath against his cheek. He pressed his fingers to his throat, and felt for the thin, irregular pulse. He couldn't find it.

"Oh no you don't, Presto. Not that easily. You're coming back here and you're going to fight this." Hank's fingers gripped the boy's nose and opened his mouth. He forced a deep lung-full of air through Presto's lips. The still chest rose and fell. He clasped his hands together and thrust the heels of his palms hard into Presto's chest. '_Two. . . three. . . four. . . five. . . '_ "Do you hear me? Come back!"

* * *

Bobby fidgeted, sitting on a bench by the front door of the old home. His mother was upstairs, discussing title transfer things with the attorney. The chair he was sitting on was draped with a sheet. So was the table in the hallway. He'd never been to Andrew's house before, and he thought it was a bit creepy to be sitting in his front room like this. Especially with Presto's grandparents gone.

'_I never realized that could happen,'_ he thought unhappily. '_Imagine leaving for all that time, and finding your folks had died while you were gone. Poor guy.'_ He shivered. So much had changed since he had disappeared, things he was only just beginning to get used to. He was three years older than the other kids in his class, and it felt like more. No one hung out at the arcade; they all went home to their Nintendos. None of his favorite TV shows were on any more. His parents were different than he remembered, sadder. It seemed like everything had changed. He drummed his heels against the legs of the chair.

Slowly, at first, he began to notice a pale green light welling out from underneath one of the shut doors. Bobby quickly glanced upstairs, then stood. '_I'll check it out. Maybe the others have got back. That'd be great.'_ He slipped down the hallway to the door, and, trying not to make a sound, pulled it open. His eyes widened.

"Presto?" he asked hesitantly. The room was dusty, but untouched. A mobile of the solar system hung from the ceiling, and paperbacks crowded the bookshelf. A worn, black top hat hung from the mirror above the desk, which still held some pencils and a textbook. Standing in the middle of the room, translucent, spilling faint green light, was the room's owner. As pale as a ghost.

Presto looked up. He seemed confused for a moment, then his eyes widened in understanding. Bobby saw him try to say something. . . .then gasp as if no sound would come out. Suddenly, his faint form wavered in the air and began to disappear.

Bobby leapt forward. If Presto had managed to magic himself here, maybe he could carry a message to Sheila. "Presto, I'm home! Tell Sheila I made it home, okay Presto? I'm home!" He couldn't be sure how much the magician heard. He was gone.

* * *

"Are you ready for tomorrow night, Sheila?" Her master yawned and tucked his hands behind his head. The clearing they were in was dark, and only the soft sounds of Krill calls broke the silence.

Sheila pulled up her blankets. For almost two months, now, she trained by day, and, more often, by night. She balanced on beams and climbed up lines, picked locks and pulled bells from her master's cloak, but until now, she hadn't really stolen anything. Even as raw as she still felt inside, she wasn't sure she wanted to just steal for no reason. "I don't know, Randale. Why are we stealing the Goldenward anyway?"

"Why? For the simplest of reasons. We could use the money. I haven't got enough for horses, and we could use a pair. Unless you want to travel to the Kingdoms of the Far East on foot? Not a comfortable experience." Randale smiled. "But don't worry. This is for a good cause."

Sheila released a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "What is it?"

"The Goldenward is a plant unique in all the realm, and the national symbol and treasure of the kingdom of Coulone. The people believe that, while the Goldenward is in their possession, the dragons will keep away and they can live in prosperity and peace. Ten years ago, King Harduc of Darkcruigh raided Coulone, carrying away the Goldenward for himself. We, my dear Sheila, are going to steal it back."

Sheila settled back in her blankets, letting herself relax. "That sounds like something Dungeonmaster would tell us to do."

"Don't say that name. I do not want to hear what that one would do."

Sheila was surprised and a little frightened at the anger behind Randale's smooth voice. She knew the reason for her anger, but her master had never explained his. She considered leaving him alone, but there was so much pain there, she had to know why. "Master, I'm sorry. Please, tell me why that name bothers you so much? I don't understand."

She heard Randale sigh. "You must know, my apprentice? You will not like what you hear, but perhaps it will give you better concentration for tomorrow night. Very well. It happened twenty-five years ago, now. Six of us, who grew up at the foot of the Blackskull mountains near what was once the Forest of Mists. We liked to play together in the pond outside our village, swimming and laughing, having fun. However, one day, a great whirlpool arose in the center of the pond, dragging us into the depths.

"We were terrified; we were sure we were all going to drown. Suddenly, there was a flash of light, and we found ourselves on the other side of the world. That one, Dungeonmaster, was there. He said we had been dragged there through some strange magic, and that he would try to help us get back. And so he did. But not without having us stop every step to fight some demon or tackle some injustice along the way."

Sheila's aquamarine eyes grew wider and more angry with every word. '_The same thing that had happened to us happened to Randale and his friends?'_ She felt the shreds of peace she had managed to salvage fall apart about her. "You can't mean. . . "

"Yes. He used us. He was the one who cast the spell to drag us there to be his champions. He tricked us into doing what he wanted, to follow his agenda of 'goodness and light'. After that agenda killed my best friend, we all felt it. So we left. He let us go. That's what he does, Sheila. He finds people and uses them to suit his needs; I don't think he has the power or the desire to fight his own battles. He has spies all over the Realm. That's why he knows so much."

Fresh tears started to swell in Sheila's eyes, but they wouldn't slip. She crushed the feeling under icy rage. "He never meant for us to go home?"

"Of course he did," Randale replied, closing his eyes tiredly. "He's not evil. But he did bring you here to use you as long as possible before you made your way out. And he's not above using your desire to get home to get him what he wanted. To get you to become what he wanted. Go to sleep, Sheila. That part of your life is over, and you'll never have to go back to it, not as long as you don't want to. Go on. We have work to do tomorrow."

* * *

After about ten minutes, Presto began to breathe on his own. Hank was exhausted, but ecstatic that the CPR had worked. He would have been happier if his friend actually awakened too. But the magician mumbled something about going to tell Sheila and slipped back into unconsciousness. At least he was alive for now.

* * *

Sheila tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, the cryptic little hints Dungeonmaster always gave jammed into her like darts. '_Eric was right. He didn't give us a straight answer, not ever. He used us! He used us! We wanted to get home, so we did whatever he said, no matter how much danger it put us in. We were so STUPID__to fall for it!' _She pounded her fist on the ground in rage.

She became aware of a pale green light shining over her shoulder and scrambled to her feet, a knife in hand and ready for a fight. She blinked to adjust her eyes to the dim light. There, not more than three feet away from her, stood Presto, dressed in blue and brown. He looked pale, translucent, but his face shone with a beatific smile. His eyes were bright and feverish, but it was hard to see more in the glow that shone about him.

The anger that had been boiling within Sheila for hours came bubbling to the surface. "Presto, what are you doing here? It's the middle of the night."

Presto began babbling, his words stumbling over each other in their effort to get out. "Bobby's alive and I saw him, he's in my bedroom at my Grandparent's. You cut me out and Eric and Diana are having a war and then I saw the way home and saw Bobby in this light and he's okay, so you can come back now and we can all ask Dungeonmaster how to get home." He swayed and quickly pulled himself upright. "I had to tell you. . . ."

Sheila couldn't take it any more. '_He's lying to me. . . Dungeonmaster somehow got to him and is using him to try and get me to come back. Well, I won't! Not ever!' _Aloud, she shouted to the wavering form, "Go back, Presto! Get out! Can't he's just using you? He was using all of us. Go away! Dungeonmaster is just trying to make you do what he wants!"

Presto's form wavered into near transparency, and he sounded more unsteady, "I know. The threads. . . .they. . . ."

"You knew?! You figured it out? How could you not tell us, Presto? Before Bobby died?" Furious, all the anger and pain spilled out at the only target she had available. Without thinking, she threw the blade she held at the transparent form, and stooped to pick up a rock. "Get out! I never want to see you again! Do you hear me? Never!"

The knife whistled right through the ghostly form, as did the rock that followed it. The green light disappeared abruptly, casting the clearing into darkness. He was gone.

Sheila felt a hand laid on her shoulder, and turned to make out the faint outline of Randale in the darkness. "Did that make you feel any better?"

Sheila shook her head numbly. With a focus for her anger gone, the realization of what she had said began to seep into her.

"I'm sorry to hear it," replied Randale, his voice soft and regretful. "You are almost certainly going to get your wish."

Sheila wiped her eyes as her master began to walk away. "What. . . what do you mean?"

Randale was silent for a long moment, weighing his words with great care. "Nothing. A random thought. It is a dangerous world, and who knows when it will let two friends meet again this side of the grave?"

Sheila frowned and hunched her shoulders as she went back to her blankets. "I know," she said, her voice filled with regret. "I shouldn't have said that. He did look like he was sick. Maybe Dungeonmaster got to him because he was hurt or something. Maybe he'll leave when he's better."

"Witch fever," Randale said softly as he went back to his own blankets.

"What's that?" Sheila asked, wrapping herself in the warm fabric as she tried to push down the feelings of guilt. "Nothing too serious, I hope."

There was another long pause. The master thief's voice was uncharacteristically somber as he said, "Nothing the Dungeonmaster couldn't handle, one way or another."

* * *

"Bill, Hi. This is Ethan. . . . Right, from the astronomy department. I know this is a busy time of year for you. . . .All the field trips, I remember. Eileen and I have to get out there soon. . . . I know. Anyway, Bill. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't absolutely vital, but I need your help. I have a pollen sample. Can you check it for me? I need to know the assemblage as accurately as possible. . . .I know you specialize in Early Pleistocene pollens. . . .no, it's modern. But I need to have them identified. . . .. Yes. Yes, it's about Diana. Will you?. . . .. Thank you so much, Bill. You know how much this means to me. . . . Thank you. We could use all the luck we can get."

Dr. Curry's eyes glittered as he hung up the phone. Then he lifted a clear plastic bag with a scrap of yellow fabric in it up to the light. "I know this will find them. I know it!"

* * *

He tried to find the portal again, but it was so hard, and the skeleton that had showed him the way before was gone. His lungs ached. It was cold, here, too, and he was getting very tired of running. How long had it been? A day? A week? Still, he had to tell Sheila about Bobby. Sheila was always hard to find. . . something to do with being invisible, he supposed. He climbed up a few more stairs.

Sheila sat in the dark. She had somehow grabbed hold of the night sky and wrapped herself up in it, a black cloak of shadow. She looked so sad and angry. He smiled. She'd definitely cheer up when she heard that Bobby was at his house. He'd have to hurry up and tell her about everything that happened before Venger showed up again.

When she threw the knife, it hurt. He felt nauseous with shock as he lifted a hand to his shoulder and touched the wet spot that was growing there. The rock that followed it glanced off his temple, making him dizzy. '_She is trying to hurt me! But she was supposed to be happy.'_ Well, if she didn't want to see him. . . .he turned and stumbled away as fast as he could.

* * *

It had been the longest six days of Hank's life. Madelaine was often there, trying to coax her apprentice to drink, or laying more herbs on the fire to fill the cottage with strange, sweet-smelling smoke that supposedly would give him strength. She sprinkled him with cool water, or laid damp rags on his forehead, and pulled the blankets up when he shivered. Hank just waited, sitting on the little stool by Presto's cot, cradling his long bow in one arm. Sometimes he talked about life with Donovan, about their adventures together before Bobby's death, about high school, about the things they'd seen. Sometimes he slept. But mostly he watched as Presto weakened daily.

Finally even Madelaine began to lose hope. Somewhere the boy had managed to pick up a purple bruise on his forehead, dark enough to match the shadows under his eyes. The skin of his shoulder broke open after a spasm, and Madelaine had to bind the wound. His breathing was growing more irregular, stopping twice, and his heartbeat fluttered like the wings of a captured butterfly. He didn't shiver any more. He didn't drink. It was true. Presto was dying.

* * *

The stairs seemed to go on forever, and he was exhausted. The sounds of fighting had died away some time ago, and he couldn't hear the Orcs or Venger anymore. His shoulder throbbed, and he felt so dizzy he couldn't stand up. He sank down to the floor. '_I hate stairs.' _That lit a faint spark of memory, but when he went after it, it flitted out between his fingers. '_I think I'll just rest a little while. Just a bit.' _Venger was gone. Dungeonmaster was gone. The way home was no where to be found. He could rest. His eyes slipped shut.

He heard the sound of laughter behind him, deep, rumbling laughter that echoed through the stairway. It took more energy than he thought possible just to open his eyes. He found himself looking straight into four of the eyes of Tiamat the dragon. "What?" he asked, bewildered, as he tried to pull himself up to his feet. Tiamat slowly reared back her red head, spreading her wings and visibly filling her lungs. He pulled himself up a few more stairs, almost too tired to try to get out of the way when she flamed. She missed, but he could feel the heat near him, and he realized foggily that he did not want to die. He climbed a few more, unable to move fast. However, Tiamat always managed to be behind him, shooting a bolt of lighting to his left, a burst of ice to his right, spurring him on. He stumbled the last few steps to see Hank standing at the top. He was surrounded with an aura of white light, and in one hand he carried a longbow. He held out his other hand.

"Come back."

Presto collapsed into Hank's arms as Tiamat veered up and into the wheeling night sky.

* * *

Crouched at the edge of the castle wall, Sheila felt the lightening sparkle of excitement course through her. She still felt guilt over her harsh words the night before, and more for the knife, even if it was just an illusion. Deep down she prayed that Presto would recover soon, and get away from Dungeonmaster for good. '_But,' _she thought, as she counted silently until Randale could move into position, '_It is his choice. We're not together any more. He can go back to Dungeonmaster if he wants.' _The distraction, the thrill of sneaking into another fortress held by another evil overlord, was enough to keep her from worrying about it for too long. She pushed the guilty feelings away.

The seconds ran out. Randale was in place, and the guards making their rounds were on the other side of the walls. She tossed the grappling hook, its end padded with rags to make it silent, up, hooking in on one of the iron spikes set around the battlements to deter invaders. She scrambled up the rope, and squeezed through the narrow arrowslit. Had it been an inch smaller, she would never have fit. She wiggled in, unhooked the grapple, and disappeared into the Royal Keep of the Kingdom of Darkcruigh.

The dark and stillness filled the stone passageways. The sound of quiet snoring came from a number of rooms, but even so, the keep seemed particularly grim and somber to Sheila as she crept along. Without a sound, she slipped down the stairs and into the main throne room, empty now. She waited by the shadows in one of the entrances. Her master should give the signal soon that he had prepared the way out. She held her breath. Finally, on the other side of the throne room, she caught a glimpse of a white streak of hair and a white smile in the darkness. A smile of her own curled her lips. It was so much nicer to be doing this with someone else for a change. She didn't have to be alone, and Randale would never let her down.

Sheila darted across the throne room. The Goldenward shone faintly in the darkness. The plant was pretty, tiny triplets of golden leaves and little copper berries. It grew in a pot of some dark metal which stood on a stone pedestal next to the throne. Sheila scooped the plant up and wrapped her cloak about it, concealing the shine. Then she ran on silent feet after Randale.

* * *

The bright moonlight was filtering in through the lacy curtains, casting soft shadows of leaves across the room. The last smoke had cleared away, and Madelaine had opened all the windows to let the warm night breeze through the cottage. The sparkle of the near-dawn constellations was nearly washed out by the moon's light. A sad smile came to Hank's lips as he gazed up out of the window and thought how much his friend would enjoy a quiet night like this.

"Come back," he whispered for the hundredth time, resting his cheek against the polished wood of his bow. He did not anticipate an answer.

"Hi, Hank." The voice was very weak, exhausted, but when Hank turned back to the bed, he saw his friend's hazel eyes look directly at him, lucid for the first time in a week.

"Presto! Hey, stay with me. You're going to be okay. I told you I'd be here." He walked to the cot and took his friend's hand in his own. "You feeling any better?"

"Tired." Presto closed his eyes for a moment, but opened then again. "Can I have some water?"

Hank almost whooped for joy as he poured a mug of the medicine-infused water and brought it to Presto's lips. "Here, my friend. Drink." Presto could hardly raise his head, but he drank thirstily.

"Thanks, Hank," Presto mumbled, closing his eyes again.

Madelaine confirmed later that his fever had broken. He slept the natural sleep of the hurt and exhausted, not the delirium of the last week. His breathing and heartbeat grew stronger. The magician had passed the first test.

* * *

Randale was silent when she reached him. He led the way to the main drawbridge. There were plenty of guards, but Sheila saw that at least four watching the gate were distracted, looking towards the northeast and the fire that Randale had set there. Randale led her down beneath the drawbridge to a narrow rope bridge he had managed to string across the moat. They nimbly crossed. As soon as they reached the other side, he turned and cut the ropes free with a knife. Then he sheathed his blade.

Sheila grinned, excited, and moved the cloak aside to show him the Goldenward inside. He exuberantly swept her into his arms and kissed her once, passionately. She was startled and pulled back. He let her go without a word. She gave him a nervous smile. Randale gripped her arm gently and then turned away to hurry into the welcoming night. Sheila followed.

Running, clutching the Goldenward to her chest, Sheila bolted through the shadows. She could do this, fight and stand up for what was right, and she didn't need anything from Dungeonmaster to do it, either. She didn't need anyone at all. She was free.

* * *

Dungeonmaster stood within the Cave of Vision, watching Sheila and Randale speed off into the darkness with the Goldenward. He folded his hands behind before him and shook his head sadly. "Well, my friend." The fairy darted forward and perched on a stalagmite which shone with its own visions of another far away place. "I foresee great harm coming from this. I should tell King Harduc where the Goldenward is before it causes great sorrow to many. Though I fear that these two would be executed for it." The fairy tilted his head inquisitively, silently offering to bear the message. Dungeonmaster shook his head. "No, little one. They are still, perhaps, my responsibility. I have done what I can to see that they get the teaching they need. They must make their own paths from here. We must wait and hope." The old gnome turned back to the visions.


	6. Reality

**Chapter 6: Reality**

The air smelled of cotton candy and hot dogs, and was filled with the sound of laughter and carnival music. '_These places are mad houses.' _ Detective Pendleton thought as he watched the Unsolved Mysteries team pack up their cameras and head back to the hotel for the day. He didn't have high hopes for the shoot, but at this point he would use any resource that came to hand.

He needed to find the bodies. His wife said he was a pessimist. That made Pendleton give a wry smile. He wasn't a pessimist. . . .just realistic. Over the years, he'd come to one conclusion. Expect the worst, and anything else will be an improvement. That philosophy had saved him from a number of unpleasant surprises in the past. Pendleton usually got what he expected.

"Ahem."

Pendleton turned when he heard the voice behind him. "Yes?"

Standing behind him, dressed in a conservative black suit jacket and a star-patterned tie, was Ethan Curry. The professor held out a couple of sheets of computer paper. Pendleton was startled by the predatory look in the thin man's eyes. They gleamed.

The detective picked up the papers and started flicking through them, looking at the list of species and the percentages. "What's this, Ethan?"

The astronomer gave an odd half-smile. "Hope."

Pendleton shoved the papers into his coat pocket. He couldn't blame the man for trying, but he really should leave the investigations to the professionals. He turned back to watching the camera crew pack it up for the day.

* * *

"Alms! Please, good mistress! Alms for a poor, blind beggar without a crust of bread!" The gnarled old man clutched at Sheila's dark red cloak as she passed.

"I'm sorry. . . I don't have any money," Sheila pulled gently free, tears springing to her eyes. She could smell the decay and despair all around her, flowing through the city street with the open sewers, hanging from the gaping windows, and filling the haggard faces of the men and women who reached for her.

A woman not many years older than herself caught hold of her arm. "Please, some food. We've no food." A skin disease boiled lesions down the side of the young woman's face, and Sheila shuddered in dismay.

"I'm sorry. . . " She quickly pulled back, and hurried down the road after Randale, who had nearly disappeared from sight amidst the throng. She could hear the voices of the beggars calling after her long after they fell out of earshot.

"Randale. . . .those people. . . .."

Her mentor was frowning, his dark hair casting a shadow across his glittering eyes. "I know. We can't help them. . . now. But very soon, my apprentice."

Sheila looked up. "We are? How"

Randale's voice was soft and determined. "The Lord of these parts lives in a fine mansion just outside of town. He caused the misery we just saw with his cruel taxes and unjust laws." The roguish smirk curled across his lips. "I think that we can put some of the wealth he's acquired to a much better use, don't you?"

They were now passing the stands of farmers, each offering the finest fruit and vegetables in the Realm to any who came close. But all Sheila could see were the faces of the starving that crowded by the city gates. There were too many people forgotten by Dungeonmaster. By everyone. The old knot of pain in her belly clenched, and she nodded grimly. "I think so too."

* * *

"Got it!" Bobby yelled as he dove for the low ball to right field. The ball landed solidly in the soft leather of the glove. In one motion he grabbed it and whipped it over to second base.

"Nice move, Bobby," shouted Adan Herrera as he trotted over from center field.

Bobby grinned. "I'll show you moves when I get up to bat."

Bobby closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of the fresh green grass, the sunshine, the sounds of the game. He loved to play and was looking forward to meeting Terry at the ice cream shop afterwards. Classes were a breeze once he caught up, and his parents had let up on him since his 'lie'. They still seemed sad, but they were trying to focus on what they had now instead of lingering on what they did not.

It was strange how fast the memories of the Realm faded during the last year. Sometimes, he couldn't believe half of the things he had thought he'd done. Now he was here, home, being a kid again; and his memories of that place seemed elusive, like the memory of a dream. He belonged here. He was going to graduate, and go to college, maybe get in the major leagues, or become a coach. Hank knew all sorts of tricks for getting people to do what they were supposed to. He shook his head. He hoped they would make it out eventually.

"Hey! Day dreaming, Bobby? She's not that cute!"

Bobby gave a barbarian growl at his friend, and returned his attention to the baseball game.

* * *

"Again!"

Obediently, Diana again vaulted the wall, dived through the hoops, landed in a back handspring that flipped her over the cloak spread out on the ground, and somersaulted below a free-swinging mace. What she did not expect was the staff that came smashing down right next to where she landed. She deftly rolled to the side, coming up behind the mannequin with the mace, grabbing the weapon from its side and assuming a defensive posture.

"Very good. Now, me." Xalen slowly circled around, brandishing her staff, while Diana clung to her mace. Xalen lunged forward, but Diana easily dodged the blow, swinging the mace back for a solid blow to the staff at the same time. Xalen grinned.

Diana lashed out with her mace again, ducking under Xalen's broad parry. She couldn't quite reach with the greater length of the staff against her, and the staff brushed her shoulder on the downstroke as she rolled out of the way. She swore softly and pulled back into a crouch, waiting for Xalen's next move. She would show the bounty hunter just how good she was, one of these days.

* * *

_Pull. Point. Loose. An arrow arcing through the air, lit by the rays of the afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees in bright shafts that sparkled with dust motes. A woman's scream, the ringing sound of a distant knife on steel. The whinny of a horse. The sound of an arrow sinking into flesh. The strangled choking of a dying man. . . _

"There was no choice." Donovan laid his hand on the Ranger's shoulder. The sound of soft sobs did little to break the silence that encircled the two men.

"There could have been something. If I had my energy bow I could. . . ." Hank was numb. At his feet was the body of the bandit he had slain. It was a young man, with worn clothes and a face that seemed older than his years. He had killed a man.

_Pull. Point. Loose._

"You do not hold a magic weapon any more, Hank. You carry the bow you carved for yourself from the old yew on the river." Donovan pulled Hank away from the body, forcing student to face teacher. "If there is another way, any other way, you must seize it. But that bandit would have killed the woman had you not shot as you did."

_Heart thundering in his ears, he tore through the undergrowth for the road, following the sound of screams. His bow was at the ready before he even saw the small wagon. The bandits had ripped the driver from the seat, and the man lay unconscious on the ground near the wheel. One had climbed up into the seat, next to the woman, and was starting to draw a knife across her throat. Pull. Point. Loose._

"Some must take the responsibility of this, the burden of this, so others do not have to. If you want to protect, to serve them, than you must shoulder it."

Hank nodded. '_Defend unto death.'_ He would do what he had to do.

_Pull. Point. Loose._

Donovan was with him when he buried the dead bandit.

* * *

Randale swept Sheila up into an enthusiastic embrace. "You, my dear, were incredible. Amazing. I could have sworn that last guard looked straight at you, but you slipped past as though you were invisible." The dawn's amber glow filtered through the dark conifers surrounding their camp.

Sheila blushed, the ice that had kept her moving, alone in a mansion filled with alert guards and a magical trap, melting in the warmth of his arms. She was surprised at how easy it had been, in the end, despite traps. A small smile trembled on her lips as she remembered the way she crawled under a table to avoid a guard leaning casually against it. The Lord and his wife, asleep in their bed, never stirred as she carefully disarmed the trapped box holding their greatest jewels and slipped their treasures into her pockets.

Randale brushed back her fiery hair and looked down at her with burning black eyes. "You, my apprentice, will truly be the greatest thief in all the world."

Sheila trembled in his arms, overwhelmed by the huskiness in his voice, and the passion that his eyes hinted at. A tiny voice seemed to call at her from a very great distance, but she pushed it away into the icy pit of all her guilt and fears. Only the moment, this moment, would claim her now.

Drawing her to him, Randale did.

* * *

"There you go. That's the last connection." Dan gave a broad grin as he turned to the young woman in the print dress who stood by the doorway. "I am proud to certify your new home fit as a fiddle and in accordance to all local and state electric codes. Why don't you try it out?"

He couldn't see the blush in the woman's ebony skin, but her smile was more than rewarding enough as she flipped the switch. The light filled the barren room. "This moment brought to you by Habitat for Humanity," he said, keeping his grin in place. '_Sheila had such a beautiful smile.'_

"Thank you, Mr. O'Brien," the woman said softly. "It's wonderful."

"Well, you take good care of it." '_My princess talked like that.'_ She had a pretty voice. This girl had to be the same age as Sheila too. He shook his head. Nodding a goodbye, he hurried out of the room. No need to spoil her grand moment with his grief.

Dan leaned against the front stoop and pulled a picture from his wallet. It was worn now, the colors creased with wear. He closed his eyes. "Dear God. I know that you can do anything. You even brought Bobby back to us. Please, please, just let me see Sheila one more time." It was about the same prayer he had said every day from the day his children had disappeared.

"Is that your daughter?" The carpenter who was finishing up the front porch walked up behind him, looking over Dan's shoulder at the picture.

Dan nodded. He didn't know this man. The regular Habitat carpenter was taking the Saturday off, and he hadn't met this new volunteer before.

"Pretty lass. That's a face you'd not forget." Dan turned. The carpenter was an old, grizzled man, with more hair growing from his ears than on his head. His eyes were strange, almost violet, and his skin was as leathery as alligator hide. "I remember seeing a girl, looked just like that."

Dan's eyes widened. "When?" He frowned and fought the shaking in his worn hands.

"About, oh, a year and a half ago, I'd say. I was working out of town. Little mining camp in the Wind River Mountains. . . I can't remember the name. I saw her and four of her friends camped for the night at out in the middle of nowhere. It was a strange night. There'd been rumbling, like thunder or maybe one of the mines was doing some blasting. Odd lights in the sky. Lots of fog, which is common up there. I didn't bother those kids, though. I figure they was just a couple of college kids out for a lark, and I was heading back into town. But you remember a pretty face like that."

Dan's hands were trembling. "Wait here. . . ."

The electrician took off like a running back, dashing to the nearest payphone to get Pendleton to question the strange carpenter. But by the time he got back, the man had disappeared.


	7. Causes

**Chapter 7: Causes**

Eric leaned against the wall of the stockade long enough to rub the blister that was developing on his heel. "I definitely need to get a new pair of boots. Not that I can find a pair that fit," he muttered as he waved at Stathis, who watched the north side of camp. The last six months had worn through three sets of boots, a set of gloves, and six shields, but Eric still had a few complaints that hadn't grown old to him yet. He saved them to bring out when he had nightwatch duty, and there, he fondly polished them to a warm glow. "Not to mention the food in this place. I'd give a hundred silver for a pepperoni and artichoke pizza right about now. . . " He tried, but he couldn't quite remember what a pepperoni and artichoke pizza tasted like. It still sounded good.

He dusted off another. "Besides, there's nothing to do around here but drill, drill, drill, and march, march, march, camped on this stupid mound of dirt. No movies, no TV. They're lucky we don't just dig our way out to freedom with our spoons." That sounded good, too. He'd heard of someone digging out of someplace with a spoon, but he couldn't remember where.

Stathis hissed at him. "Sssssilencsse. The captain issss coming." Eric pulled himself up to attention. The last year had added muscle to his lean form, and his sword hung at his hip like it belonged there.

The captain emerged from his tent, followed by two of his lieutenants and three men dressed in rich-looking robes. The captain shook hands with the man in the richest robes. "It is agreed. We will meet you at Darkcruigh within a fortnight."

The man in the robes gave a polite bow. "We await your coming eagerly. I bid you good night." The captain himself led the trio to the gates of the stockade where they mounted and disappeared into the night

Eric tugged the tuft of hair growing on his chin thoughtfully, unsure about what he saw. He'd wanted to hide his youth by growing a goatee, but all he got were jokes so far. He shuddered to think about what Diana would say if she saw it. The captain was not above adding to the jests as he strolled casually over. "Pulling on it won't make it grow any faster, my boy," he offered with a smile. "You might pull it out."

Eric stood at attention and didn't twitch, even though talking about it made his chin itch horribly. The captain grinned. "At ease, Eric. Wondering what we took on?"

Eric nodded, relaxing slightly, but self-conscious under the captain's scrutiny. "Yes, Sir."

The Captain nodded. He was a fairly short man, and wiry, with blond hair given well over to gray, and pale blue eyes. "I've heard that you've been a bit concerned about not fighting for an evil cause. One of His pupils, I know. It's not a healthy thing for a mercenary to think about, but you can set your mind at ease. Your first war will be all for the good. We're going to save a princess."

* * *

Madelaine emerged from the confines of her cottage. "Has Donovan reached Standwell yet, dear? We have all of these lovely summer vegetables. I would hate to see them go to waste. It would be wonderful if Donovan and your young friend Hank could join us for dinner."

Presto stood, setting the last of the tomatoes into the basket. He'd reached his full height, and though he'd never match Hank, he'd definitely see Eric eye-to-eye. He desperately needed a haircut, but then, he usually did. The young magician's eyes lost focus for a moment. "They're about three miles out of Standwell. Can I go get them? I can meet them at the gates."

Madelaine looked her apprentice up and down. '_He has grown. He is not a child any more.'_ She frowned thoughtfully. "No, my Duck. I'd like you to stay here. I'll go fetch them."

Presto frowned. "Why? I've not been to town in over a month. I'm going to go stir crazy if I don't leave for at least a while."

Madelaine pointed to his right hand. "It's a little too early for a winter frost, Luv. Please don't ice over the tomatoes."

Presto jumped, and looked at the basket he was holding. His hand, and the handle of the basket he carried, were covered over with a fine rime of ice, sparkling white in the afternoon sunshine. He quickly pulled his hand free and tucked it under his armpit to warm up. By the time he looked up, Madelaine was out of the gate and headed towards town, humming to herself.

* * *

Standwell glittered in the afternoon sun, the summer's day giving color and a certain grandeur to the otherwise drab city walls. Donovan carried a roll of pelts over one broad shoulder. His long bow was in hand, but he seemed at ease. Hank was excited. It had been at least a month since they had come to town, and Presto had all but promised news of the others the last time he was here. '_I wonder how everyone has changed,' _he mused as he walked beside Donovan, carrying his own bow and more furs. '_I know I have.' _ He had. He wore light leather armor he had crafted himself. His blue eyes, blond hair and beard, and rugged frame won him no end of attention from the girls the last time he was in Standwell. The beard was new, a concession to convenience after too many days in the woods without a mirror. Sheila would laugh. Or she would have, once. He hoped desperately that she was all right. That they all were. '_And where is Eric, anyway?'_

Donovan broke the dark train of Hank's thoughts. "Hank. We're almost to Standwell."

Hank looked up, "Yes?"

Donovan paused, and Hank stopped also. "I think this visit to the city will be my last with you."

Hank's brow furrowed. "Why? Are we moving away?"

Donovan shook his head. "No. You have been my apprentice for over a year now. . . more than my apprentice. My friend. The son I never had. But, there is a change brewing on the wind, and you will be part of that change. I cannot keep you from it."

"I don't understand. What kind of change?"

"I don't know. I do know this. You came to me skilled and knowledgeable. I have finished your training. All you lack now is experience, and you will match, you will exceed me. You do not need my teaching any more." Donovan paused. "I am very proud of you, Hank."

Hank stood on the roadside, stunned. Donovan spoke so little; Hank had not anticipated this at all. "What should I do? Where should I go?"

Donovan slapped the young man's back. "We'll discuss it in town. I'm sure Madelaine's got something cooking for us, and I wouldn't want to miss it."

Hank blinked. '_How would she know that we were coming?' _he wondered, but already Donovan was several paces ahead. Hank quickly moved to catch up, his thoughts quickly turning to the future. '_Now what?'_

* * *

"Why did we leave, Xalen?" Diana asked as she twirled the Guardian's spear in her hand. "We traveled two hundred miles just to get to that village."

Xalen seemed impatient to get away as she strode ahead of Diana on the road north. "And we'll walk two hundred miles back again."

"But. . . there had to be some reason we were going there."

"There was. Big bulette." Xalen kept going.

Diana stopped. "Bulette? What's that?"

"A landshark. Nasty, so I hear. Propensity for eating halflings, children, or anyone else that looks tasty."

Diana was horrified. "So why aren't we stopping it? Those villagers couldn't kill it on their own. We need to go back!"

Xalen's face was sour as she turned back to her apprentice. "I offered a reasonable price to remove the problem for them. They didn't want to pay, and landsharks have no treasure."

The acrobat felt a flash of anger. "You saw their farmland. Their crops had rotted in the field. No one could tend them. How could the villagers pay you and afford to eat?"

"They should have been better prepared for it then. It's not my fault if they didn't put aside money ahead of time for this sort of emergency. Now they can just find their own way of disposing of it."

"But what if they don't have a way ? What will they do?" Diana glanced back down the road that they had come. '_How could Xalen not help them?'_

Xalen shrugged. "Not my problem." Seeing Diana look back down the road, she added. "And don't you dare head back there. That spear of yours would break against a Bulette's hide, and then you'd be eaten. You wouldn't stand a chance."

Diana seethed. "I can't believe you'll let them die just to make a few coins. I'm going back."

Xalen whirled, and in an instant, she stood at Diana's side with the tip of a knife held to the acrobat's throat. "I won't let you commit suicide. You swore to obey me while I taught you, and I will hold you to that."

Diana straightened, lifting her head away from the knife. This was a side of her teacher that she had not seen much of. It had felt so right, fighting the monsters that made life in the Realm a nightmare for villagers. But fighting for money, letting the villagers die, it was just wrong. In a tight voice, eyes on the blade, she said, "Then I don't want you to teach me any more."

"You can't break our agreement until you prove to me that you can survive and perform this craft on your own." Xalen's voice was silk over steel. "You haven't yet."

Diana closed her eyes, feeling the cold touch of the knife against her skin. "And what would that take?" she asked stiffly.

"I've got a job in Coulone. They're being attacked by an invading army, and need scouts. We're going. Prove to me you can be a decent scout, and you'll have proved you have a craft. I'll release you from your oath."

It wouldn't save the villagers from the bulette, but it would free her to do what was right. And staving off an attacking army was a good cause. Diana nodded. "Agreed."

The bounty hunter pulled the knife away, sheathed it, and started walking. Diana watched Xalen stride northwards and hated her for it. But she followed.

* * *

"I'm stuffed. Madelaine, you have got to be the greatest cook in the whole world." Hank leaned back from the table and the devastation left behind from the delicious meal.

The healer's eyes twinkled. "And you've got to be one of the greatest flatterers in the world." She glanced over at Donovan with a blush on her plump cheeks. "But then again, you had a good teacher."

'_Donovan and Madelaine?' _Hank shook his head and grinned. "Well, it's the truth. I'll help clean up. . . "

"No, lad. Go on out with Presto. Donovan and I have some catching up to do, and I'm sure you boys do as well. Out with you, now."

Hank looked across the table at his friend, who had spent the evening being rather quiet and withdrawn. But, when Presto noticed the look, he flashed a grin. Hank smiled back. "All right. We'll be outside." Presto nodded agreement, and the two headed out into the garden.

...

Inside the cottage, Madelaine started picking up plates, while Donovan contentedly smoked a carved, wooden pipe. "I can't keep him here any more," she said simply.

Donovan nodded. "Hank. . . is ready. As ready as I can make him. The wizard?"

Madelaine quickly shook her head as she dampened a rag for the plates. "I can't teach him any more. I never reached the Second Test. You know I only have the Sight. But. . . that's not the same as being ready, is it?"

"He needs to leave Standwell before he gets dangerous. If the townsfolk find out, they'll stone him. Hank too, just to be on the safe side." Donovan's voice was matter-of-fact.

"Not alone!" Madelaine vigorously scrubbed at a dirty plate. "I won't let him go."

Donovan sighed. "I didn't doubt it. Hank is ready. He can go with him. But to where?"

"I was thinking of the wizard Melchior of Coulone. He, at least, might be powerful enough to mitigate some of the damage. And he lives alone in that tower." She dipped the plate in rinsewater.

"Does your apprentice really have the power you say?" Donovan shook his head in disbelief.

Madelaine turned to face the Woodsman, holding clean dish in her hands. "Old friend, if we aren't very lucky, it won't be a village he reduces to ash when the Second Test comes. It will be a kingdom."

* * *

Hank sat against the trunk of an old apple tree that was just beginning to show its fruit, his bow across his knees. He grinned. "It's good to see you again."

Presto settled in the grass across from him. "You too. I haven't been able to go out at all for ages, and it's been kind of lonely around here."

Hank nodded. He tried to think of something else to say, but finally he couldn't resist asking the question that he had wanted to ask all day. "Did you figure out how to do it yet? The clairvoyance spell?"

Presto did grin back, then, a genuine smile that lit his whole face. "Yep. Well, I managed to find you. I saw you and Donovan leave for Standwell. I haven't checked on the others yet. I sort of thought it would be better if you were there when I tried it. I'm not sure who I'll be able to find." '_Or if they can be found,' _he thought. Hank had told him how Eric never went to Tardos Keep.

"That's great, Presto! Do you want to try it now?" Hank ran his fingers along his bowstring. "I've been worried about everyone. Especially Sheila. And Eric."

Presto nodded. His shoulder began to throb. "Me too." He took a deep breath and released it. "Okay, I'll check on Diana first. Just stay quiet, this might take a couple of minutes." He closed his eyes and reached out with another kind of sight. . . .

...

_Diana stormed down the path after the warrior woman she had apprenticed to. She wore a white tunic and carried a spear that shone with a pale, sky-blue light to his eyes. A black tattoo wound around her left eye, and others ran down her arms. Diana was still bathed in the deep blue aura that always surrounded her, but he could almost feel the electric crackle of her anger as she marched after Xalen. _

_Master called back to apprentice, "Diana! What lies on the crest of the hill up ahead?" _

_Diana snapped back. "Twenty-seven Cobo trees and three deer."_

"_You missed the berry bushes and the eagle."_

_Diana fumed as the two continued to walk in silence._

_...  
_

Presto's eyes snapped open. "Geez. I don't think I've ever seen Diana that angry."

Hank leaned forward. "What? What happened? Is she okay?"

Presto nodded. "She's still with her teacher. They're no where I've seen before, walking down a path. Her teacher was quizzing her about things on a hilltop. But for some reason, it was making Diana really mad."

Hank mulled that one over for a moment, and asked, "Did she look okay? What did she look like?"

"She looked fine, as far as I could see. Different. She's got a tattoo. But she's hurt or anything. . . just angry. She has a spear. I think it's magical." Presto was beginning to get used to the auras he saw. Sort of, anyway.

"Can we send her a message somehow?" Hank felt relief. One of the others was safe. That was something.

Presto just shook his head. "Give me a moment. I'll try and look for Eric next."

...

_The tent was lit by a charcoal brazier. Within, six men leaned over a map and frowned. The tent flap opened, and Eric walked in and saluted. Eric looked. . . mostly like Eric. The warm, red light surrounding him matched the glow of the charcoal flame._

_For a moment Eric glanced up and looked directly at him, a small frown on his face. But he looked away when one of the men spoke. "Come in, Eric. Gentlemen, this is Eric of Montgomery, a second-year. He came to me highly recommended, and his performance since then has been exemplary. I'd like him to listen in on these discussions to further his training."_

_Eric looked confused, but rather proud of himself as he said, "Thank you, Sir." He eyed the map over the shoulders of the other men._

_The others glanced up at Eric, and one said, "Of course, Captain."_

_The Captain pointed to the line of a river. "The Red Blades have been assigned the initial movement. We'll cut down along the fields here, and use the river to help prevent us from being cut off. We'll have to move quickly – a sharp thrust to the castle proper, and a rapid retreat."_

_One of the other men shook his head. "That will leave our supply lines over-extended and, should their forces overwhelm the sieges here and here," he pointed to the map, "We'll be cut off completely."_

_The captain nodded grimly. "I know. But if we delay the strike to secure those forts, the princess will die. And if she dies, King Harduc assures me that the Blades' keep will be the next to burn."_

_Eric, quiet in his corner, paled noticeably. But he too nodded as the mercenaries continued to outline their plans._

_...  
_

Presto looked up. "He's a soldier." He sounded surprised.

"A soldier? Eric? Are you sure?" Hank shook his head. That didn't sound like the Eric he knew at all.

"I'm pretty sure. He looked like he was fine. He was at some meeting that a bunch of officers, I guess, were having." Presto pushed up his glasses worriedly. "It didn't sound like whatever it was they were planning to do was very safe, though."

Hank ran his hand along the length of the bow. '_Eric. A war. This could be really bad.' _"Did you find out who he was fighting with?"

"Something called the Red Blades, I think, and a King Harduc." He sighed. "Maybe Donovan knows where they would be. At least he's alive."

"That's right. He'll be okay." There was a hesitation in Hank's voice as he leaned forward, and a growing light in his eyes that Presto couldn't mistake. "Do you think you could find Sheila?"

The fledgling wizard looked away. '_Hank loves her.'_ It seemed like everyone who knew Sheila loved her. He knew he did. He wouldn't have said a word about it, not in a hundred thousand years. Hank was his friend, and Sheila deserved someone as great as Hank, anyway. Varla had, in the little time they were together, come to fill that emptiness in his heart, but Hank missed Sheila every day. '"_I never want to see you again!" That's what she said. But. . . .I'll try. For Hank.'_

Presto rubbed his shoulder as if it hurt him. "I don't know, Hank. I'm getting tired. But I'll give it a shot."

Hank nodded and leaned back, but Presto could see the earnest hope in his ice-blue eyes. He took a deep breath, and sent his sight ranging into the darkness again.

...

_The cool glow of triple moons bathed the clearing with a soft radiance. In the center of the clearing, white skin and black light. . . ._

_...  
_

"Oh!" Presto covered his face with his hands, hiding the red flush that started under his collar and climbed his cheeks until they flamed crimson.

Hank reached up to pull one of his friend's hands away from his face. "Presto? You okay?"

Presto cleared his throat and nodded. "Uh huh."

"What happened?" Hank lowered his hand after uncovering one hazel eye.

"I. . . uh. . . ." His voice steadied, and he dropped his hands. "I couldn't find her. I got near her, and she's okay, but I couldn't see."

"That's really all? But what about. . . " Hank gestured, feeling confused and disappointed. He had really wanted to find out about Sheila, more than anyone.

Presto shook his head. "I. . . um. . . I felt something notice me, and it startled me. Madelaine's warned me of all kinds of trouble you could get into, doing this sort of thing. So I hurried back. I'm. . . sorry, Hank. I couldn't see her." He looked away guiltily.

Hank lay his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. "She is all right, though?" '_Maybe Presto could look again later.'_

Presto examined the lacings on his boots. "I'm pretty sure. I could tell that much." '_And I wouldn't tell you more. Sorry, Hank.'_

The two sat in silence for some time as the first stars began to reveal themselves in the eastern sky.

* * *

Shadow Demon glided through the ruins of the ancient city, reveling in his new-found power. The power of touch, the strength, the freedom! He was freed from the eternal bondage of his own weakness, unable to carry more than the lightest zephyr. But, finding the club had been his triumph, and his reward had been great! He had the power to make them hurt. He had the power to make them scream! And he owed all to Venger.

And what did Venger wish in return for this great gift? The Crystal Skull. A pretty thing. How many years had Venger denied the waning of his powers, the inevitability of his own mortality? Shadow Demon had watched with patience as Venger assumed the mask and mantle, using illusion to hide the toll of his years as The Dungeon Master had flaunted his. Venger, whose slightest whim had, at one time, caused the very ground to tremble, came to rely on terror alone to hold the inhabitants of the Realm in thrall. And when mere children would not yield to that terror, Venger found himself defeated time and again. Producing the children at all had been Dungeonmaster's last, clumsy blow in a fight that had lasted a thousand years, but it was enough.

Venger was not defeated yet. Shadow Demon knew full well the power of those places where Dungeonmaster would never choose to go. For years, now, Venger had gathered his strength for the incantation that would take him to that darkness. With the Crystal Skull, there would be no doubt that he would be the ruler. And Shadow Demon had always known who best to ally with. As he brushed over the bleached bones of a long-dead warrior, Shadow Demon rejoiced.

* * *

"Now, my Duck. Remember what I told you. Dress warmly, it may be summer now, but winter will be here faster than you know it, and if you're not in Coulone by then. . . ." Madelaine licked her finger tips and leaned over the fence to straighten a hopelessly unstraightenable curl.

"I'm sure they'll be in Coulone long before the leaves turn, Madelaine. Let them go." Donovan sounded amused. Hank gave Presto a sympathetic smile, but Presto wouldn't meet his eyes. He just waited patiently for his mentor to finish her 'ministrations'.

"I suppose," Madelaine said. Her face was serious, though, when she said, "Don't go to any villages. Don't stop in any village or town until you reach Coulone. Do you understand?"

Presto looked over at Hank then with frustration. "Can't you tell me why?"

Madelaine shook her head. "Young magicians are not popular in the country you'll be traveling through. That's all I can say." She then reached into the basket she carried, and passed a neatly folded white bundle to her apprentice. "This might help. . . later, anyway. You can put it on when you get out of Standwell. I've managed to convince it that it needs to stay clean for you, anyway."

Presto reddened as he took the bundle, feeling guilty for how angry he had been at Madelaine over the last few weeks. He remembered a time when all he wanted to do was stay home and read, but after traveling in the Realm for so long, Madelaine's little cottage seemed like a prison, its white-washed gate an impenetrable wall separating him from his friends. And the hints she gave scared him as much as learning to use the magic intrigued him. He stammered his thanks as he held the bundle tightly.

Madelaine leaned over the fence to give her apprentice one final hug. In his ear, for him alone, she whispered, "Remember, my duck, if you forget everything else. You have everything you need. In yourself. I know you'll do very well." There were tears in her eyes as she turned back towards the cottage.

Donovan said nothing, but gave a small nod of his head before going back to the cottage as well.

Hank returned the nod, then turned to Presto with a smile. "All right. We're off to see the wizard."

Presto gave a crooked grin, though he still didn't quite meet Hank's eyes. "Well, at least we've got good directions this time. We can follow the Yellow Brick Road."

They both laughed and headed down the trail towards the next town, and what lay beyond.


	8. Into the Fire

**Chapter 8: Into the Fire**

'_My hand's sweating. Hands aren't supposed to sweat.'_ Eric changed his grip on his sword to wipe his palm, but it didn't help. The hot sun of late summer beat down on the waiting army with a vengeance. Ripples ran through the ranks as soldiers and mercenaries shifted uncomfortably as the delay before the battle stretched from minutes to hours.

Eric could see the army spread out around him from his vantage point at the crest of a low hill, hidden by a small copse of trees,. Cavalry on the flank, infantry holding the center. The archers behind their rows of sharpened stakes. He had heard the Captain talking about the flanking attack, the Kadish counter, the Hopstern decoy. But the terms commanders discussed seemed to have little relationship to all of this. Eric of Montgomery was scared to death.

In the distance, a cloud of gray smoke spiraled up towards the horizon. That was the signal. Somewhere out there, fifty men fled for their lives. A village burned. An army readied for the attack. Utter silence strangled the ranks.

Like a wave, the enemy army came sweeping over the hill following the tattered remnant of the squad fleeing back to the copse where Eric stood. The enemy's front line stopped short at the first sight of the army spread out on the hills before him, but it was too late. The trap sprang. With the throaty roar of horn and voice, the world went insane.

...

Eric was running, carried along by the tide of men around him, into a thick, black storm that screamed and clanged with the sound of steel on steel. Before he knew what was going on, he slammed into a man in a heavy helmet who hacked at him with an axe. '_Block with the shield, thrust with the blade, breathe. . . gotta remember to breathe. . . parry, slash. . . up. . . .Oh my God! Is that blood?' _The hacking stopped. He gained a few seconds respite before some other strange, dark figure lurched towards him. He tried to get away, but there was no room. '_Cut. . . dodge. . . block. . . .breathe. . . .downstroke. . . .counter_.' More blood. Where was it coming from? This was a nightmare. Beyond any nightmare. Eric's eyes darted around, looking for a place to run. All he saw was Corman, stumbling backwards and shielding his eyes from a spray of blood. '_More blood?' _ Then there was the rider galloping up behind the half-elf, swinging a spiked flail. . . .

It was an instinct, honed in hundreds of fights with his friends. Eric screamed and leaped between the staggering mercenary and the rider, shield at the ready. The ring of flail on shield drowned out all sounds of the battle. The jarring pain in Eric's shoulder made his teeth chatter. Blindly, he lashed out with his sword. By some mad luck, it found the bottom edge of the rider's breastplate, slicing up and in. More blood, running down Eric's hand. The rider toppled off his horse. Corman barely managed to pull the boy out of the way of being trampled as the panicky steed dashed out of the battlefield.

Then it was over. Eric's eyes roved the battlefield, and his arm hung as limply at his side, shards of his shattered shield still strapped on. He didn't say a word as Corman handed him the horseman's shield and led him back to the mercenary camp. The sounds of the battle dimmed, and instead, the complaints and sighs, and, occasionally, silence, of the injured swelled around the pair. Corman checked out Eric's arm, but found it only bruised, protected by the new shield and the skill of the shield-bearer. Eric shook like a leaf as Corman cleaned him up, wiping the blood off his face and hair.

"It's all right, Eric," the half-elf said comfortingly. "You showed great courage in the battle."

"I. . . .I did?" Eric said, his voice cracking to such a degree that he sounded as if he only had twelve years, not his full twenty-one.

"Yes. You saved my life. And you took down one of their commanders." Corman squeezed Eric's shoulder reassuringly.

Eric nodded, numb. He shakily got to his feet, and Corman let him go. The young man staggered a few steps away and was violently ill.

Corman started cleaning off his sword.

* * *

Diana wiped her mouth and crawled back towards the shelter of the over-shadowing wall. Around her, the only sound among the still-smoking buildings was the excited cry of the crows as they feasted. Diana felt sick. She'd seen horrifying things during her time in the Realm - shattered, broken villages, animated corpses brought to life, the dead, the dying. But none of it could compare to this. Dead soldiers lay everywhere. In places the ground was red with dried blood. Diana knew she should be grateful that the villagers escaped before the fires began, but all she could feel was rage towards the men unleashing this horror upon Coulone. But she knew how she could help. She was fast. She was stealthy. The army of Coulone would not be taken by surprise again.

* * *

Hank shook his head. "That's gotta be cold."

Presto stomped forward miserably. "I've got snow down the back of my shirt. And it's melting." Above him, a tiny black cloud followed along. Right now, it was snowing.

Hank grimaced sympathetically, but it was definitely hard not to laugh. Things with Presto just had a knack for not quite working they way they were supposed to. Presto was still trying to push himself with his new-found magic but his attempt at producing a cool breeze to counteract the hot summer afternoon had resulted in a companion that had followed them for the last day and a half.

"You are soaked through. Maybe you should change clothes. It won't take long for those to dry."

"Don't remind me." Presto smiled at Hank and plunged into the hedgerow, black cloud in tow.

When he re-emerged, he was wearing a robe of white wool, trimmed at the sleeves, hem, and neck with dark green. Embroidered into the green was a fine tracery of symbols stitched in a thread that looked like copper. He fingered the green material from the sleeve. "It's from my old clothes. I figured Madelaine would have thrown those out. . . too many scorch marks."

Hank looked at the robe. "What's the writing on it?"

Presto shook his head. "It's not writing. They're wards." He pointed to one. "That means 'Protection'. And this one here is the ward of Mastery." He brushed the snow off a fairly large, complicated ward. "And that one's the symbol for Life. I don't know all of them."

Hank looked his friend up and down as Presto straightened out the robe and pushed his glasses up. Somehow, the robe seemed to suite him. "I think that must be Madelaine's way of saying you're a true mage now."

"You think?" Presto looked back down at himself, as the clothes began to collect a fine dusting of snow. "Really?"

Hank nodded, grinning as he took Presto's wet clothes.

The mage held his head up a bit higher as he started down the path again, despite the snow that was accumulating on his shoulders. "Neat."

* * *

Scholars would call it the Battle of Trebant Ford, the battle that changed the tide of The Goldenward War. The army of Darkcruigh, fueled by their passionate loyalty for their King, and even greater devotion to their twelve-year-old princess, raged along the banks of the Trebant river like a summer wildfire, burning deep into the heart of Coulone. In the grim keep of Darkcruigh, the gentle and just Princess Astera suffered the illness that sapped her strength and life daily. Her father, King Harduc, himself lead the army in battle for the Goldenward, the magical plant that had held Witch Fever at bay. The men of Coulone fought like demons, desperate to hold their borders and their sacred treasure against their centuries-old enemies.

If the scholars were well studied, they would know how a group of mercenaries known as the Red Blades swept through the countryside. They were almost unchallenged as Harduc's army held the defenders of Coulone in their fortresses to the east and southwest by siege. The Blades fought their way to Trebant Ford, prepared for a skirmish at their last major obstacle before taking the Castle at Coulone.

It was never discovered how a mere hundred men were held within the besieged camps, fortified by the illusion of a thousand more. But historians would all agree that, when the Red Blades crossed the Ford of the Trebant, the bulk of the remaining army of Coulone was arrayed to meet them. With the Blades cut off by river and many miles, the battle became a storm of blood and fire. The tossing of two leafs in that storm went unrecorded.

* * *

Eric lay panting in the ditch, bleeding from several scratches on his arms. Near misses. Beside him, Stathis snarled incomprehensible things in his reptilian tongue. Corman nursed a wound that would likely leave him with only one eye. Up and down this trench, other wounded soldiers who had fallen into this ditch sought cover and protection. Wounded, and dead. The veteran who led his squad, who had tried so hard to teach him to parry with his sword, was back there too. He wasn't leaving the ditch.

Eric could hear the sounds of fighting get closer and closer. The Coulone soldiers were still cutting down those knots of soldiers who hadn't made it out. Despite the long, catstail reeds growning along the sides of the damp irrigation ditch, sheltering them from sight, this wouldn't be a safe hiding place for long. '_This is a nightmare. . . just another nightmare. Please, let me wake up.'_

He didn't wake up. Eric leaned over to Stathis and whispered, "We have to get out of here."

Stathis nodded, blinking at him with those weird slitted eyes. "Mussssst get acrosssss the river." The sounds got closer.

Panic surged through Eric, but he didn't dare make a sound. Neither did anyone else, and for a moment, the fighting stilled. The only sound was the water trickling through the drainage ditch and down to the river. Metal struck metal again, and the fighting resumed as Eric leaned over to Stathis. "Listen. Tell the others to take off their armor. Quietly. And cut the longest reed they can find and blow it so they can breathe through it. We're getting out of here."

Stathis cocked his head, reminding Eric of a big iguana. "What issss it we do?" he asked.

Eric used the tip of his sword to cut off a long reed. "Oldest trick in the book."

Tears spilled from Diana's eyes as she made her way across the blood-soaked fields at Trebant Ford. This was as bad as the village, worse. Although she tried to tell herself that these were hardened mercenaries, paid to kill, no more than thugs, it didn't help. Here and there, she saw knots of fighting, and she tried hard not to look at those. '_I did this.' _What had she expected when she told the captain of the Coulone guard of the battleplan she had found sketched out in the Blades' camp? Of course they would use that information to stop the Blades' attack on the castle. But she never imagined it could be anything like this. So many people dead. She had to get back to the castle. Maybe if she could crawl into bed, she could actually wake up. '_This is a nightmare.' _

Diana picked her way along the riverbank, keeping to the rushes in an attempt to stay out of sight. Suddenly, she heard a roar of half-mad rage and pain come rushing down upon her. A burly man, dressed in the leather and chain of the Red Blades, soaked in blood, charged down upon her. He swung a sword at her head. She didn't think. She acted. Her spear whirled around, catching him in the middle of the chest. It slid through the armor easily. The man gave her a look of pain and grief before falling to his knees. She pulled the spear free. The man slumped to the ground. '_Thank God the others aren't here to see this_,' she thought as she bolted down the river's edge. '_Thank God they're someplace safe. Please, let me wake up.'_

As she crawled past an irrigation ditch and ran towards the castle, she saw a row of reeds moving slowly across the river. '_It must be Blades, trying to get away.' _She trembled, but rubbed her eyes and straightened. She could call the soldiers, let them know, but there was too much blood on her hands already. She turned away.

* * *

"_Thanks to you, Diana, our forces were able to give the Red Blades a defeat from which they will never recover." The chiseled-stone face of the Prince of Coulone chipped into a smile as he descended from his ornamented throne. "Your scouting revealed the plans of King Harduc and his minions, and, thanks to you, the threat to this kingdom has been thwarted."_

_Diana, radiantly dressed in silver and amber, held her head up and squared her shoulders bravely, but there was misery in her heart. She took the required step forward and knelt before him. He drew his sword from its scabbard and touched it against one shoulder. It was everything she could do not to cringe from the touch of the cold steel, but she did not move. Instead, she said, "It was my honor to serve, for the protection of Coulone and its people."_

_The Prince lifted the sword and laid it on her other shoulder. "And, in honor, rise, Diana, knight and defender of the Realm."_

_The Prince re-sheathed his sword. Diana stood. As the Prince went on to knight other 'heroes' of the Battle of Trebant Ford, she made her way over to Xalen, who watched the proceedings with a dry amusement. "Have I fulfilled your requirements, Master? Am I free now?"_

_Xalen smiled. It was all teeth, and her hair in the torchlight seemed tinged with red. "I am satisfied that I have done everything I agreed to do. Meet me after the festivities and I'll give you your mark of freedom. Then you can go your own way."_

"_I'm ready now. Let's go." Diana retrieved a glass of wine from a proffering hand and took a sip. The wine and the pain would help to wash away the bitter taste of the evening. _

_But as they left, she heard her mentor saying, "You don't have to be alone, Diana. Remember you're not alone."_

_...  
_

Presto opened his eyes. Hank had gotten a fire started, and the curl of flame danced in the darkness. Hank set the stew pot over the growing blaze and sat down across the fire from him. "What is it?"

Presto grimaced. "This is really, really bad news. Enormous bad news. Diana was just named a Defender of the Realm by the Prince of Coulone."

"What's wrong with that?" Hank asked, as he began peeling a potato with his knife.

"She was named that because she helped wipe out the Red Blades, who were fighting for King Harduc." He picked up a carrot and started to peel it for the stew. "Eric and Diana are fighting each other."

Hank's blood ran cold. "Did Eric. . . ."

"He's alive. I checked. He was hurt, but he's alive." Presto stopped peeling. "The fighting is really bad, Hank."

Hank's jaw tightened in resolve. "We're going to have to find out what's going on in Coulone, and what this war is all about."

"How're we going to do that? I don't know what anybody there looks like, except Diana and Eric."

"We're going to have to go into the next village and find out. We can't charge into the castle in a middle of a war, anyway. They'd never let us near."

"But Madelaine said. . . " Presto protested.

Hank threw the potato in the pot. "We don't have any choice. We've got to know what's going on there so we can figure out how to stop Diana and Eric from killing each other. Did you see Sheila?"

Presto shook his head and said nothing.

Hank sighed, reining in his impatience and frustration. "I'm sorry. If you can't do it, you can't do it. When Bobby died, it seemed like she would never heal. I wish I knew for sure that time has helped."

In a quiet voice, Presto muttered, "Bobby's not dead."

Hank looked up at the magician sadly. "We all wish that, Presto."

"I saw him when I was sick. Something. . . I don't know what. . . showed me a portal, and I knew it led home. There was a light at the end of the portal, and I went through it. I found myself in my old bedroom. I saw Bobby there."

'_It would be nice to hope,'_ Hank thought. But the story was too familiar, especially to him. He had never told anyone about feeling the chill touch brought on by the Darkling's fog. The flash of light, or how he had felt, almost seen, the presence of his father as he had hung in that nether world between life and death. "Presto. I didn't tell you this before. I guess I didn't know how. But. . . you were dead." Hank wiped his blade off and sheathed it. "You died. I was there. Your heart stopped beating. You stopped breathing, everything. You may have. . . it may have just been. . . just because you saw him doesn't mean he's alive."

"But I was sure. . . " Presto protested. '_Dead?'_

Hank nodded. "I understand. . . really. I've been there too. But, if he was alive, you'd be able to sense him, right? Or even see him. And Dungeonmaster would have known." After another moment. "It could be true. I hope it is. But. . . ."

Presto threw his carrot into the pot. "I understand." '_I understand that you don't believe me. Just like Sheila didn't. I guess I hardly believe me, any more.' _He gave a grin that didn't reach his eyes and stirred the pot. "So, on the menu this evening, stew, stew, or stew. . . ."

...

That night, Presto dreamed about fire.


	9. At What Cost

**Chapter 9: At What Cost**

"What? The gold has vanished?" The king's voice thundered through the marble hallways of the palace.

The trickling of the courtyard fountain filled the silence that followed his words, until a meek voice offered, "Yes, Your Majesty. The gold has been stolen."

"But that gold was to cement an alliance between our people and the nomads! Without it, they may attack!" One of the servants pushed a delicate porcelain vase a little nearer the center of its pedestal, in case the royal outrage cause it to fall.

"Yes, Your Majesty." The aide that stood before the king wrung his hands.

The king stood. "Very well. We shall have to make up for that gold out of our personal coffers." He turned to look at the group of eleven men, wearing the oiled beards and silks of the wealthy. "It is a sacrifice, but, to keep the peace, we must all contribute."

The most richly-dressed of the eleven stepped forward, his voice carrying an easy confidence despite the king's thunder. "We cannot, My King. Our coffers, too, have been robbed within the last six months, and we cannot give out more for fear our people will go hungry."

"Your gold also?" the king roared. The aide left on the steps hid behind the throne. "These thieves have grown more bold. I have always tried a path of compassion for those who must steal to eat, but this thievery puts lives at risk. It must stop."

The head of the council stepped forward. "We have discussed it, My King. Your compassionate sentence of imprisonment and service is not enough. A stronger message must be sent. Something that will make it cease before the entire kingdom is beggared. "

The king nodded, slowly and suspiciously. "I am listening."

The councilor went on. "Forty lashes of the whip for a first offense. If it is proven that the thief has stolen gold before, then the hand that stole it shall be cut off."

The king frowned. The sentence seemed cruel, even barbaric. But if compassion had not worked, perhaps it was the only way. "But what of those who have to steal food to live?"

The councilor straightened. "With a suitable deterrent in place, we may be able to gather the funds to provide for those who are hungry, until the true thieves are caught and stopped. Perhaps," he continued, glancing meaningfully at the others on the council, "if we could be assured that the thieves that stole our gold would be punished strongly enough, we may be able to sell some of our assets to raise the money you need to make peace with the desert nomads."

The king returned to his throne and sat. After a moment of consideration, he sighed. "It shall be as you say." He turned to his aide, who emerged reluctantly from behind the throne. "Make an announcement in every marketplace in the kingdom. Those caught stealing will receive forty lashes of the whip. Those who are proven to have stolen more than once shall have their right hand cut off."

Then the king stood and strode from the room while his aide hurried to carry out his command.

* * *

"I'd prefer to do this in an easier time, for all of us, but as is, we make do with what the Gods give us. Eric of Montgomery, for your courage and, more important to any mercenary that likes to keep his skin, for your cunning, I name you a lieutenant of the Red Blades. May the Gods see fit to show you mercy."

The Captain handed Eric a sword, well-made and solid steel. Eric slid it into his sheath. He wished he could forget that the lieutenant who wielded it before him had died not three days before. The Captain then pointed to the gray horseman's shield he held at his side. "You've got a better shield there than any I could give you. The Prince of Coulone outfits his officers well." The Captain then limped back towards the camps where the wounded were being tended. "That's it for ceremony. You'd find more in the Palace, I suspect."

Eric still couldn't believe that he had made it away from Trebant Fields alive, that any of the Blades had made it out alive. It seemed like a perfect trap. But, somehow, a sixth of the mercenary company had survived the battle, limping and struggling back towards the borders of Darkcruigh. Most of the officers were dead. The Captain was injured. This evening was just a short respite before another day of trying to move a hundred men, most wounded, before a fresh wave of fighting began. '_I'd rather be out-running Venger, even with the dumb unicorn,' _he thought. That set off a fresh wave of nostalgia. '_God, I wish Hank was here. He'd know some good way to stop this mess. Probably find a way to prevent this whole war. And Diana would know how to rally the troops. Nothing ever got her down. And, hey, Presto at least could pull some food out of his hat. Even if it were just alligator eggs._ He grimaced. _Then again, maybe this isn't all bad. Besides, they're better off where they are now. I'd rather be a hundred miles from here, too.'_

Eric hurried after the Captain. "Uh, sir. Can I ask a question?"

The Captain looked over his shoulder. "Your horse is with the others. There's enough without riders. Just pick the one you want." His voice, for all his light words, sounded bleak with sorrow.

"That isn't what I was going to ask. I meant to ask, why me? Why did you ask me to come to your meetings with the commanders? Why did you say I was 'highly recommended' and all that?"

The Captain turned back, rubbing his graying head thoughtfully has he looked over the young man. He nodded. "It's a long story." He took a deep breath. "I well know the sort of training Dungeonmaster gives his pupils. You see, there were six of us. . . ."

Suddenly, there was a commotion to the south, and the shout went up. "A spy in the camp! A spy in the camp!" There were the sounds of a struggle, and the ring of metal being struck.

The Captain turned to Eric. "Another time, perhaps." With that, they both started jogging over to the source of the sound.

* * *

"Eggs! Eggs! Finest in the land," the hawker called out, displaying his wares. "Chickens, too!"

Another called out, "Fine woven cloth! Buy my cloth! Any color of the rainbow, and then some."

Hank and Presto strolled through the village market place, looking at the various wares. It had been two years, now, since either of them had been in a town of any size, though this could only barely be called that. For a penny, a baker sold them a sugarloaf, and Hank broke it in two to give half to Presto.

The baker grinned. "You look like you're from one of the villages to the North. Here. Take a second loaf. Courtesy of me. We like to be hospitable to the village folks here. Very fine people, they are. Welcome to Ranstead."

Hank grinned. "Thank you, sir. We appreciate it."

Presto took the bread and bit into it eagerly. "Yes, this is great. Thanks!"

The baker smiled. "No problem at all. May I ask, what brings you to this fair town?"

The pair exchanged glances, once again recalling Madelaine's warning words. But the question was bound to come. "We were heading to Coulone. We heard rumors of battle, and needed to...."

The baker raised his hand with a smile. "Say no more. I know exactly the people you need to talk to. There's a booth on the north end of the market place. There are some men there who will be happy to speak with you. You'll find it under the sign of the sword."

Hank thanked the baker again, and the two pushed their way through the marketplace towards the booth the merchant had described. It was hard to miss. A silk canopy, royal blue and trimmed with gold, hung over it, sheltering it from the afternoon sun. In it, there were two soldiers, drinking ale and talking amongst themselves. Hank drew himself to his full height, and walked towards the booth, Presto following closely behind.

"Excuse me, sir?" Hank asked. The soldier, dressed in well-polished armor and an impeccable tabard, looked up. "Can you help me? My friend and I are travelers, and we heard that there was treacherous country ahead, in the kingdom of Coulone?"

The soldier pulled up with interest as he surveyed Hank's well-muscled form and the longbow strung over his shoulder. He reached out to tap the arm of the solder sitting next to him. That man too came to attention as they looked over the pair. The villagers that surrounded them pulled back to watch. "You are interested in the fighting in Coulone? You've come to the right place, young man. I can tell you our cause, certainly. How the kingdom of Darkcruigh attacks us blindly and without provocation, how our armies struggle to defend themselves." He pulled out a piece of paper. "Just put your mark here..." He pushed the paper and a sharpened quill towards Hank.

Presto stepped out from behind Hank's shadow, and the second soldier looked him over. "You...don't bother to sign," he said with a sneer.

Presto could feel the disdain in the soldier's voice, and he frowned. For some reason he could feel the fire in the air again, just beyond reach. His fingers twitched. He wouldn't normally get angry at such a little thing. "Hank...."

Hank picked up the pen, but shook his head. "We're not here to sign up, sir...we're just traveling and we'd like to know the roads."

The first soldier stood. "The only road to Coulone, traveler, is with our armies. We need young men. It's obvious you can fight, and you have an honest look about you. Not like those mercenary dogs, the Red Knives... villainous scum. Our cause is just. We need men...men like you."

A new wave of the unfamiliar anger flooded through Presto at the words. "Eric's not...." He could feel the fabric that separated him from the blaze unraveling around his hands. '_No...'_

Hank shook his head. "No...I think we'll just go. Thank you."

The first soldier reached forward and grabbed Hank's arm. "You'll go when I say, boy....For Coulone..."

The fire had a target. His friend was in trouble. Just as Hank yanked his arm away, the weave came undone and fire spilled from Presto's fingertips, scorching the soldier in a gout of flame.

Terror washed through the young magician. This was exactly what Madelaine had warned him about...his powers, here, for everyone to see, and used to harm. He remembered that day at Varla's village, the pain of the fire spilling out from him when all he wanted to do was help. "I'm sorry..." he stuttered, horrified.

The first guard had fallen to the ground, desperately beating at the royal blue cloak which blazed about him. The second guard was already on top of him, also trying to douse the flames. Hank looked about with startled eyes. "Presto...we've got to get out of here!"

"Witch!" The cry erupted from the throats of a hundred villagers who had been standing near by. "An evil witch! A wizard that will kill us all!" The screams of the terrified were quickly matched by roars of anger in their throats. "Catch him! Bind him! Stop him before he kills us all!"

Numbly, Presto nodded at Hank, and the two bolted away from the recruiting booth as fast as they could. The crowd swirled around them. Hank grimaced as he felt the first stone pelt him through his leather armor. He managed to duck out of the marketplace and into the street.

A blacksmith emerged out of the crowd, swinging a heavy hammer at Hank's head. The ranger ducked under the blow, rolled, and kept running, unwilling to stop the simple man. He dared a quick glance back to see Presto close behind, narrowly evading the blacksmith. Confident, he threw himself fully into the run, leaving the villagers behind him. He narrowly ducked between the houses, rolled under a cart, and towards the woods beyond.

But as the shouts of the villagers diminished, he turned. His throat went dry. On the edge of field beyond which he hid, he saw a crowd of people, circled around a splash of blue and brown that lay spilled across the watched the villagers gather up the limp form and carry him back into the village. Desperately, Hank wracked his brain for options, anything that wouldn't involve killing half a dozen innocent people. Nothing was forthcoming.

'_How could I have missed him? Have I been alone that long, that I've forgotten how to look out for my friends?' _ He tried to push the dark thought out of his mind. First, he had to catch his breath. He could still feel the heat on his face, the rush of flames from his friend's hands in a senseless attack. He remembered the confusion he had seen in the magician's eyes as he turned to run. He had to think of a way to rescue Presto, or something really bad was going to happen. He just wasn't sure to whom.

* * *

Sunlight poured down in long, dusty shafts through the tiny, high windows above the colonnade. The room below was left lit, but cool, despite the desert sun that blazed outside with noonday fury. The dim rays illuminated pillows and rugs of exotic design, embroidered with red and gold. Sheila brushed her fingers gently across the silken threads. '_How long it must have taken to weave these things,' _she thought. It was hard to concentrate. The exotic wine Randale had shared made it easier to forget. But it made it harder to remember, also.

"You're thinking again." Amusement lent lighter notes to Randale's smoky voice. "My Desert Rose...always thinking." Randale was stretched out across the rugs, enjoying the luxury of an afternoon nap.

Sheila's head lifted to look at him. "Just thinking about the floorplan for the palace," she lied. The lies came easier to her now. Once, she was laughed at because of how poorly she kept a secret. But truths were just lies you haven't found out about yet, so why should she be any different? She had learned much from Randale.

The Master Thief tucked his hands behind his head. "You should be sleeping. We have a few days to worry about that yet, and we both have been busy." He nudged the open coffer of gold coins at his feet with a toe. "To good end, but busy."

Sheila did not answer, staring at the gold that glittered in the sunbeam. '_It is like the rugs...people put years of their life to create it, and they have never seen it.' _

"It was stolen long before it got to us," Randale looked at her with those black-ember eyes, as those he were reading her thoughts. "We're just passing it down the chain again."

"I know," Sheila snapped back. At Randale's hurt expression, she dropped back into the pillows. "I just don't like the feel of this job at the palace. There are bound to be lots of guards. And people seem uneasy to me. They're talking."

Randale climbed to his feet. "Guards were never a problem for you, my Love. Don't worry. We'll be together. It won't be a problem at all. Why don't you stop worrying about it for a while? That's my job. Have some more wine, if you like. I'll keep watch from here over the marketplace. If there seems like there's any hint of a problem, we'll let the palace go and leave with what we have. It's enough for the passage."

Sheila sighed and lay back on the embroidered pillows, her short-cropped locks falling across her face. "All right. I don't have to think about it now. Let me know if anything happens."

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift in that warm, safe world of moonlight and shadows, where nothing was real and she never really had to think about anything. Randale was there. Let him figure out what they would do next. Let him take the pain of worrying about the future...and remembering the past.

* * *

"You cannot keep me here! The Prince will pay for my return!" Diana struggled furiously at the bonds that held her fast. Perhaps if the guards left her alone for some length of time, she could find something sharp to cut the ropes... '_Yeah...and if I had wings I could fly away.' _These low-life mercenaries were too professional to leave her alone for a moment. She fell into silence, stewing angrily at the misstep that allowed her to be caught.

It wasn't her fault. She had a perfect position, buried in the bushes on the edge of the mercenary encampment. She had been there for hours and not a single patrol had looked twice. But when she saw the young man talking to the captain she had been spying on...the gasp just came out. It looked like Eric.

Now, she cursed herself for being so foolish. Eric was in Tardos Keep, many days journey from here. Foolish sentimentality had gotten her caught, just as Xalen had told her it would. She could hear her teacher's rebuke now.

"Diana?" There was a gasp behind her, a choked, half-strangled voice from the entrance of the tent. She rolled to face the speaker, still ready for disappointment.

"Eric? It was you...." His puppy-dog brown eyes, dark hair, wiry frame....He was there. He was real. Lady Diana Curry, Knight and Defender of the Realm, did the only thing she could think of. She burst into tears.

* * *

Randale watched Sheila as she slept, the long shadows beautiful as they brushed her pale face. He glanced towards the square, where a small crowd of people gathered. They wore long robes of white and yellow, sharp contrast to the black pants and turban of the guard posting a sign on a wall in the marketplace.

They were talking. '_Fah! Let them talk.'_

_

* * *

  
_

The trap was set.

The small town fell into a frightened silence at dusk, and now a white glow brightened the sky, sign of the approaching dawn. From his perch on a shop's rooftop, he could see the group of men guarding the cellar where Presto had been taken. They looked alert, nervous. And too numerous to take down alone. If he shifted slightly, he could see the bonfire that had been erected. A heavy stake, and chains, rose from the middle, testament to the villagers' plans.

Hank had worked feverishly throughout the long night,. He prayed that Presto wasn't drugged or unconscious, but it seemed a likely possibility. The barrels were in place, the charcoals lit, his bow was strung, the blind was prepared. A slick of oil gleamed off of his skin, and a wet cloth covered his mouth and nose. If this all worked right, no one would have to die this dawn. _ 'If not....'_

There was a disturbance in front of the doors of Presto's prison. Someone official, accompanied by the two soldiers encountered earlier, spoke with the guards. Townspeople began to trickle out of their homes, their words a frightened buzz to Hank's ears. He stayed frozen, watching closely. '_Please let him be standing.' _It was all luck now.

The sun rose higher. More people emerged. The guards and the official, a stout man in a blue doublet, seemed to reach an agreement. The man stepped out before the onlookers, raising his voice so even Hank could hear.

"Citizens! Yesterday, a dangerous young wizard came to our town, burning one of the Prince's soldiers and threatening our very lives! For our safety and the protection of this village, there is only one choice. The wizard must be destroyed! Do any speak for him?"

Hank held his breath, wondering if they would have some ally here, or if they were truly as alone as he felt. There was no response.

"Very well," the official continued. "He is to be burned, then. Bring him forth!"

The guards opened the cellar doors and disappeared inside. They emerged a moment later, half-dragging, half-carrying the young magician out. Presto stood unsteadily, blinking in the early-morning sunlight. His hands were tied in front of him, and his mouth was gagged. Hank held his breath.

The villagers surrounded Presto, but none dared come too near save the guards, who pushed him forward firmly. Presto stumbled, and began to walk towards the village square and the bonfire there. Some of the villagers ran ahead, lighted torches in their hands. '_A little farther...a little farther...'_

The stream of people reached the middle of the narrow street below him. Hank pulled back his bow, and fired. An arrow streaked down to the street right below Presto, so close that it grazed his shirt. Behind it trailed a cord, and then a rope that dropped before the young magician.

"GRAB THE ROPE AND CLOSE YOUR EYES!" Hank shouted, not even pausing to see if Presto did so before releasing again. This time he shot an arrow laced with fire directly into one of the barrels behind Presto. The guards were only just beginning to look up, trying to find the source of the shots, when blinding, acrid smoke billowed up from the barrel. Exposed skin touched by the smoke immediately blistered, and eyes streamed with painful tears as even the guards jerked away. '_Poison Ivy. . . or close enough_.' Hank lined up his bow and shot the other far barrel, seeing with relief that Presto had grabbed the rope. The second barrel began to billow with smoke. Villagers were screaming and running, dropping the torches and trying to get away from the burning itch. Presto's skin was beginning to turn red and blistered, but Hank didn't dare stop shooting until the last two barrels of oil, rags, and poison ivy ignited. Then he dropped his bow and heaved on the rope.

Presto was ready. Hank grunted as he pulled the slender Magician up the side of the building and away from the smoke. "I've got you, Presto. Just hang in there. It's a good thing you're conscious. . . .It would have been hard to go in there after you. We're almost out."

First a pair of blistered red hands, followed by tousled red hair emerged over the side of the building, and Hank reached down to pull Presto up the last foot. "Gotcha." He pulled the gag from Presto's mouth, and cut the cords that bound his hands.

"Can I open my eyes yet?" Presto said thickly, his tongue still swollen from the gag.

"Yes. . . put this over your mouth and hurry. . . that smoke won't last much longer." Hank handed Presto a second dampened rag, and grabbed his bow. The pair raced across the rooftop to the knotted rope Hank had left hanging down the far side of the building. They slid down quickly, out into an alley. Hank could hear the sounds of soldiers trying to regain control of the situation in the street. "I've got a blind, about fifty feet into the woods. We'll run out there, and lay low until we can slip past the first patrols. I don't think they have dogs."

Presto nodded, running hard next to the Ranger. "Thanks. . . I thought I was going to be a Presto barbecue there for a second." Hank had to grin. He set himself just behind his friend, so if Presto fell, he would be there to pick him up, but Presto was running well for someone who had been trussed up all night. The pair escaped the last row of houses and out into the open fields. The plowed soil was rough under their feet, rich with the smells of early morning, and birds sang in the woods beyond. The shouts of the villagers faded in the distance, save for one or two, and the forest edge beckoned.

Suddenly, a whir. . . _Pain! Light!_ Hank stumbled past the edge of the trees and Presto tugged him on, through the undergrowth. Protruding from the ranger's back, below his shoulderblade, was the long, black shaft of an arrow. '_Oh God, it hurts.'_ It caught on the low hanging branches, and the pain made Hank's head swim. He gestured towards the blind he had made, and he and Presto tumbled in. They landed at the bottom of the tiny pit with a bump. The dawn sunlight through the curled fiddlebreak ferns rising above his head was the last thing Hank saw.


	10. The Price

**Chapter 10: The Price**

Like delicate curtains, long beards of dripping moss hung from the ancient trees that circled around. One silver moon, cool and distant, shone in the star-filled sky above, and each droplet that fell from the branches shone like a sparkling gem. The moon's face was reflected in the rippling pool, an image broken and shattered with each drop that hit the pond's surface. All around was the quiet sound of trickling water. It dripped down the rocks and into the pool, a miniature waterfall that filled the glade with music. And there, a queen of nature, with skin dusky as the night-bound trees and marked with shadow, and hair as black as the starry sky above.

Eric couldn't speak. He felt awkward, and all that was coming into his head was the dumb jokes that saved him before. But he couldn't dismiss her with a joke. Not now. Not after all that had happened. He shifted uncomfortably, lost for words.

Diana lifted her eyes slowly and broke the emptiness between them. "Thank you, Eric. This is beautiful."

His voice squeaked and he cleared his throat before answering, "I'm. . . uh. . . I'm glad you like it. I thought it'd be good to get away from the camp. The others will be here to wash up in a bit, but. . . ."

"It's all right." Her voice was. . . it was honey. Ice cream. What was he going to say?

"I hope they didn't hurt you," he offered lamely.

Diana shook her head. "No. I was afraid they would. I had heard stories about the Red Blades. If I had known that you were with them. . . ." She turned away guiltily. So many had died at Trebant Fields.

The pain, the smell of blood, all welled up within him, and for a moment Eric could have gagged at all the memories. "I needed to learn. I couldn't get to Tardos Keep. They're good people, Diana. We were fighting for a good cause. . . they're heroes. So many of us. . . my sergeant. . . he was hacked apart. . . ." The words spilled out, but they weren't what he wanted to say at all.

The silver moonlight glittered over fresh tears that spilled down Diana's cheeks. She thought she was not going to cry any more, but the tears kept slipping out. She wanted to keep them in. She didn't want to hurt. "I didn't know, Eric. And the Blades, and Darkcruigh. . . they invaded Coulone. How was I to know you were with them? I've seen so many things, Eric. The villagers. . . I was on those battlefields too. And afterwards. . . ."

Eric bowed his head and looked away. Diana rubbed at her cheeks. Out of the warmness of his gaze, she could think. She could feel it again, the edge they teetered on for so many years. How they would get closer and closer, and then he would do something that would irritate her, and she'd snap back, and they'd push each other away, angry. Until once again he would prove himself, and the whole cycle would start over again. The old habits. They were still there, bubbling under the surface despite everything that had happened.

Diana watched Eric's pale face in the moonlight, the way the wind ruffled his black hair. She didn't want to play that game again.

She didn't know how to stop.

Suddenly, Eric jumped to his feet. "Take my hand," he said, reaching out to her.

Confused, Diana slowly reached up to take Eric's hand. His grip was firm as he held hers. He pulled her up to his feet. "Eric. . . ?"

Eric glanced across the moonlit pool, and then looked straight into Diana's eyes. "Trust me." She caught a flicker of movement in his expression, but before she could let go, Eric jumped into the rippling waters, pulling Diana in with him.

Diana sputtered and gasped as she felt herself pulled up to the surface by his strong hand. Eric pulled her to her feet, and she blinked the water out of her eyes. He had the biggest, goofiest grin she had ever seen, and water was streaming down his hair. His clothes, like hers were soaked through. "What was that for?" she asked in shocked confusion.

His smile slipped away, but still lingered in his eyes. "Because," he said, pulling her closer. "Because we both have had too much of war. Because it's time to wash all of the blood and memories away, and go back to where we came from. Kids in a strange world. Far from home."

Her voice was husky as the tears sprang to her eyes again, re-released at the memories of all those years searching for a way home. But the tears mingled instantly with the water running down her face. "We're not kids any more, Eric," she whispered.

He folded his arms around her. "So much the better."

Anything other protest she might have whispered drowned in their kiss.

* * *

"Come on, Hank. We just need to reach the other side of these woods. I think I see moonlight that way..." Presto tried to keep the worry out of his voice. The last thing Hank needed to know was how frightened he was. Especially now.

They had waited until the sun set, crouched in the blind like rabbits in a hole. For hours, Presto watched the sun creep across the sky, not daring to speak or move, hardly daring to breathe for fear the villagers would find them. And beside him, Hank faded in and out, bleeding from that horrible arrow in his back. He could tell that Hank was in pain, but the ranger never made a sound. Sometimes he seemed to be asleep, and sometimes his eyes were open and his jaw was knotted so tight Presto could see the sinews. But Hank never spoke. Even after the villagers were long out of earshot, Hank refused to let Presto touch the arrow.

Finally, the golden sunlight turned red, then disappeared all together. Hank nodded to him, and he helped pull his friend out of the blind. They ran through the forest as the shadows closed tight around them. Presto did not dare make a light, picking their way through the gloom as much with feel as sight. The arrow seemed to catch on every branch they passed, but Hank insisted that he not even try to break it off until they were someplace safer. The forest had been eerily quiet, as if the animals still remembered the hunters that had ripped through them in the daylight hours.

Presto, skin still blistered and swollen by the poisonous gases, was fully supporting Hank now. With every step the ranger seemed to grow weaker, and they had run for two hours or more. They would not be able to run further tonight. With a few staggering steps, the pair entered the moonlit clearing.

The forest, which had been dark and grim under the shadow of the trees, became less sinister in the pale shafts of moonlight. Above, the white moon showed her face, and Presto could see the faint twinkling of stars. He gently helped Hank lay down on the soft bed of pine needles and moss that made up the floor of the clearing. "Here you go, Hank. They won't find us here."

Hank did not answer. Whether it was pain or exhaustion, he had fallen unconscious from the wound.

"It's up to you, Presto," the young magician said under his breath. With a twiddle of his fingers, he summoned up a small light and hung it on an overhanging branch. In the pale blue glow, he could finally see.

The clearing was a semi-circle of trees in front of an old, broken wall. There had been an archway once, but it had long fallen into ruin, as had the building behind it. There might have been more blocks of stones beyond the edge of the trees, but Presto's meager light did not illuminate them.

The portion of archway and wall still standing were of carved stone, a trim of scrolled leaves and flowers from some time lost to the ancient history of the Realm. All that remained was a shell-shaped fountain jutting from the wall, as though to permit guests to wash hands and faces before entering an abode. The fountain's spout was dry, but when Presto touched the surface of the water it was clean and pure. '_Magic, but not mine. Thank God for small miracles.' _He washed his hands, then tore the sleeve off of his shirt and soaked it.

Presto went back to where Hank lay on his side, breathing shallowly with the arrow jutting from his back. He took a deep breath. Madelaine had taught him much of the healing arts, though he had no herbs to help Hank and it was too dark to look for them. But he had to take the arrow out. He was glad Hank was still unconscious. He used the strips of cloth to carefully wash the wound, picking away all of the twigs and dirt he could. Probing as gently as possible, he felt around the arrowhead, his fingers in the wound. The arrow was deep, but he could feel the back of the head. It could not have penetrated far past the ribs, and it was not barbed. The villagers used their arrows for hunting, not for torturing wounded beasts. '_More miracles.' _Despite everything, Presto couldn't help but be grateful. He took off his shirt and tore it into more strips to have bandages ready.

"Close your eyes, Hank," he told the unheeding ranger. "I'm sorry." He knelt at Hank's side, pinning his shoulder with his knee. Gritting his teeth, he wrapped both hands around the cold shaft of the arrow. "Ready?" The question was as much for himself as for the ranger, but there was no response. "1...2...3..."

He pulled. The arrow slid out of the wound. Presto grimaced as he heard the harsh sound of metal against bone as it came out, quickly followed by a flow of blood. Presto immediately packed the wound with the wet cloth, wrapping it as tightly as he could with the bandages he had made. He thought for a second of trying to create fire and cauterizing the wound, but the fire crackled around his thoughts dangerously, and he didn't dare.

Hank's face was pale, but his breathing grew easier as Presto watched. Still, Presto knew there was no way the wound would heal without better care than this. He didn't know if Hank would survive wound-fever or any of the other infections that Madelaine had taught him about.

There was no choice. Before the sun rose, he would have to leave and find help despite Madelaine's well-proved warnings. Without it, Hank would die.

* * *

Tiamat uncurled herself in her dark cave, stretching out her wings. One head looked behind her, into the gloomy cavern, where a new clutch of eggs lay nestled in the warm pile of gold. The eggs shone, to her fond eyes, warm with brilliant colors, red and blue, silver and gold. They were new now, still glistening with the dampness of her body. Time would bring them to maturity, though, and with them...

"A new age...." The sibilant whisper came out of the darkness as her mate entwined himself around her. "Care for them well."

"As ever," she growled back, her voice shaking the caves, a chorus of dragons.

The Other separated, and his eyes glittered like jewels. "Then I leave you. Farewell, Beloved."

Tiamat said nothing, feeling the push of his body as he moved past her, the trail of his mighty wings brushing her own. She turned her heads to watch him take flight into the darkness, a shadow across the sky. As he flew upwards, in the moonlight she could see the flash of silver from his flanks before he disappeared into the star-strewn sky.

"Farewell, my Husband."

Then, he was gone.

* * *

The light of a thousand stars glittered in the cloudless sky. The full moons were radiant overhead. Sheila glared at them angrily. They would only make her task harder, and the palace was not an easy place to enter. At least the wine had worn off, as Randale had promised it would. She crouched in the darkness, feeling an energy dance through her, the anticipation of the rush to come. Before her, the rows of marble pillars shone pale in the darkness, like maidens attending the palace of the King. A dry wind whispered past, carrying with it the sound of footsteps. The guards. Sheila waited for them to pass.

As soon as the footsteps died away, she darted forward, crossing the courtyard quickly. The shadow of another pillar swallowed her. This second row of columns lined one side of a breezeway that had many large arches that led into the palace proper. As she paused to assess the courtyard, she went over the plans to the palace, and all Randale had told her. She could see the steps she had to climb. Her goal, the coffer of gold and jewels hidden in the palace treasury. It was the prize, Randale had said, for the owner of the fastest steed in the races that were to be held later in the week. That was a lie too, of course. But Sheila no longer cared. She would just be happy to leave this hot and hungry land. Once she knew the path was clear, she quickly ascended the shining marble archway.

The courtyard was spread out below her magnificently. A fountain splashed and sparkled in the moonlight, and the tiles around it spread out in intricate geometric designs. She ducked below the edge of the railing before she could be spotted.

"I heard someone! That way!" The shout went up right at the edge of earshot, and Sheila remained frozen as the guards thundered past as they went to investigate. Their armor of burnished brass shone, and their swords were drawn. Their steps faded into the distance as they followed the call. She dared a peek into the corridor. It was empty.

A few hundred feet, and she was crouching in the shadow of the armory door. Her fingers flew to her tools, and she had the lock picked open in less than three seconds. She slipped in, closing the door behind her.

The room was surprisingly empty. A few ancient suits of armor stood on stands along one side of the room. Some weapons were carefully polished and wrapped, stored in racks or displayed on the wall. Brittle scrolls stacked the shelves. In the center, on a table lit by a single shaft of moonlight, was the coffer. Sheila reached out, taking the coffer by the handles...

"I thought you might come tonight." It was a voice, sweet as honey with the accent of these desert people. Sheila whirled, hands going to the little dagger at her belt.

A slender figure stepped out from between two suits of armor. She was dressed in a white pleated dress, but against the white marble amidst the shadows, she had been impossible to spot. In her hand, she held a long, curved knife, glittering with jewels. Sheila could not make out her face.

She drew her own dagger, but hesitated. She had never killed anyone before.

The hesitation was enough. Instead of leaping forward to attack her as Sheila thought, the woman gave a piercing cry, and darted forward to block Sheila's path to the door. Sheila could already hear the heavy feet and cries of the guards returning.

"My father's guards can be so foolish sometimes. I thought it would be best to keep watch myself."

'_Maybe Randale will get here first. He can get me out,'_ the thief thought, backing up to keep the table between her and her captor's blade. The shouting was nearer now. She didn't dare say a word.

The woman at the door cocked her head, weaving her blade back and forth through the air, ready to parry any attack. "You seem familiar to me somehow. Step into the moonlight where I can...."

Suddenly, the door behind her was pulled open. Sheila sprang forward, eager to jump into Randale's arms and be taken away from this place. But instead of Randale's cloaked figure, she saw a door blocked with eight large, muscular palace guards. Their swords were drawn. The first two advanced. The woman with the knife stepped out of their way.

Light spilled from the corridor into the darkened treasury, brightening the face of the young woman who had caught her. Sheila froze, her dagger clattering to the floor.

"Aiyesha?" She whispered.

Then the guards were on her.

* * *

"Damn....ow...." Hank cursed softly to himself as he peeled open his eyes. He felt light-headed and cold, but the wound below his shoulderblade burned. He vaguely remembered running in the darkness, but not where he was now. It was dark all around him, and his vision seemed distorted, part clear and part veiled as if by mist. He could make out the outline of tree-branches swaying against a moonlit sky, but little else. The sound of night crickets and frogs was comforting, but not what had awoken him. There had been...something. He closed his eyes again and listened.

There it was again...a sound like chimes blown by a gentle breeze. Hank became aware of a faint radiance. He opened his eyes again, and lurched up with surprise. The sudden motion sent the world spinning again and made him cry out in pain at the renewed hurt in his shoulder.

But the large, gentle violet eyes before him merely blinked slowly and Hank seemed to hear laughter like the sound of bells.

As the world stopped spinning and Hank rested weakly on his good arm, the face came into focus. A white forehead, crowned with a golden horn, a silky main of fiery red-gold. A unicorn. She was tall and majestic, shining with an inner light as soft and white as the moonlight above. Her deep eyes held a look of intelligence...and compassion.

Hank's heart felt tight as he gazed affixed on the image of such beauty. But he was weak, and hurt so badly. The shoulder that was supporting him folded, and he had to bite back a whimper as he collapsed onto his back again. After a moment, he could trust himself to speak.

"Hi." The glow changed position, but the unicorn did not enter his field of vision. "What brings you here?"

*Come.* Hank could hear the windchimes, but this time, it came with a voice, beautiful as the chimes, speaking without sound.

He had to chuckle softly. "I'm sorry, Friend. I don't know what I can do for you...not like this. Presto...he'll be back soon."

*Come,* the beautiful voice said again.

Hank coughed to clear his throat. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. "You don't understand. I...can't get up. I can't help you."

*I can help you, if you come. You must. You must see...a journey you must undertake.* Absolute sincerity shone in the words that rippled through Hank's mind. He knew he could trust her.

It was pure faith and pure will that forced Hank to roll awkwardly to his feet. The unicorn knelt beside him, and the ranger fell, rather than climbed, onto her pearly-white back. She lifted him lightly; he did not even need to hang on. He sagged against her back, feeling his pain slip away as she rose steadily and bounded into the dark and moonlit forest.

"Will Presto know where to find me?" Hank mumbled into her mane.

*He has his own journey to travel today.*

* * *

Presto trudged on. He pushed his way out through a long tangle of brambles and tall, pink foxgloves skirting the forest edge, breaking out into a weedy field. A pale red dawn bled into the eastern sky, but most of the world still lay in shadow.

"Good. A field. That means farms...and that means help for Hank." Presto pulled a clinging bramble from the white robe. His shirt and pants were pretty much tattered after his capture and then using them to bind Hank's wounds. The robe remained stainless, but the magician inside the robe looked pretty tattered himself. It had been a long night, and he was tired and frightened. Against the dawn, Presto could make out a trail of smoke and the outline of a roof. He pushed east.

Presto could smell it before he saw anything. A sick, sweet stench, mixed with spicy woodsmoke. It made him want to choke, and he held his nose as he picked his way forward carefully. His foot caught on something, and he stumbled, catching himself quickly. A cloud of flies leapt into the air with a buzzing sound, revealing the torn, mangled face of a young man staring sightlessly into the sky. Presto recoiled in horror, but did not turn away. Once, he would have been terrified. But the feeling rising in his heart was a strange, unfamiliar anger. He pushed it down. He'd seen this and worse before.

The body wore light chain. A broken sword was still clutched in its hand. A gaping wound across its neck showed the cause of death. A soldier. Presto bit his lip and stepped carefully around the body. A quick examination of the nearby farmhouse confirmed his fears. It was just an empty shell...the waves of battle had swept past here, and left burned homes and broken lives in its wake.

Still, there was no choice for it. Trying to ignore the silent mounds that the rising sun revealed, Presto pushed forward, looking for someone who could help Hank.

* * *

Sheila sat on the tiny cot, her arms wrapped around her knees. Mentally, she went over every moment of her capture, trying to make sense of it. She was raiding the treasury of a wicked king for Randale. She had gotten in successfully...and suddenly, there was Aiyesha. Out of nowhere. The guards had captured her easily in her shock. They confiscated her lockpicks and knives, and put her, firmly, into a small, dry cell on the lower floors. Aiyesha disappeared only a few moments after the guards had arrived. Through the tiny, barred window, she could see the pale glow of dawn coming. Sheila waited.

"I just need to be patient. Randale will rescue me."

Of course he would. She loved him. He had to.

Memories bubbled out of the shadows in her mind_. _

_Another cell, this one slimy and stinking of orcs, but she was willing to wait. It never took long to see his serious blue eyes through the bars in the door. The darkness would light up around his face as she'd peek out, and then with an electric hum, he'd cut open the lock with his bow. She'd push the door open and fall into his arms. He'd tilt his head down and they'd..._

_No. They wouldn't kiss. Bobby would shout 'Sis!' excitedly, and Hank would let her go, more intent on getting the gang safely out. And she would smile and follow him, eager to get away._

_Hank had always come back for her._

_But Hank hadn't saved Bobby._

Sheila gritted her teeth.

The soft pad of footsteps made Sheila look up. Through the window grating, she could see a pair of boots she recognized. She jumped up and grabbed the bars.

"Randale," she whispered. "I'm down here."

The boots shifted a little, moving just out of her reach.

"I hear you, My Desert Rose. Hush." The Master Thief's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Are you going to get me out of here? I don't think there are very many guards."

The silence was very long. "I can't. The King's men are skilled, and they'd track me down even if I did manage to get away with you. The innkeeper has seen us together." Randale's voice sounded rueful.

Sheila drew her hand back, her voice hardening. "Then you are going to leave me here?" Her lip trembled, though with pain or fury, not even she could tell.

"Don't be that way, My Dear. The King is considered to be uncommonly merciful. Forty lashes, maybe some time imprisoned. At the worst, you lose a hand. You don't need to fear the gallows. And you're good enough to be working on your own now. A year, maybe two, and you'll be allowed to move on."

The young thief's voice was like ice. "A hand...?" She did not know what to say.

"I am sorry, Apprentice. I'd hoped we could have worked together for a long time, but I guess that is not the way it is supposed to be. Good luck to you. I need to go now."

The regular march of a guard patrol drew closer. Sheila peeked out of the window to catch a cloaked figure cross the road in a few long steps and jump gracefully over a wall and out of view.

A dull pain beat in her chest. Sheila returned to sitting on the cot, pulling in the pain, squeezing it tight.

'_Love brings betrayal. Better to turn your heart to stone than to love. No one would ever love you anyway. Better, then, not to let yourself feel. Better not to let yourself be hurt. Forty lashes. And Randale is gone.' _Sheila would have to find a glacier full of ice to survive this day. Alone in the dawn-lit cell, she went to work finding it.

_Hank had always come back for her._

_But Hank hadn't saved Bobby._


	11. Blind

**Chapter 11: Blind**

The histories of Coulone and Darkcruigh, and the histories of many surrounding kingdoms, record the last day of the Goldenward War. King Harduc, trapped between the Wending Forest and the north fork of the Trebant, was camped with only two thousand men, soldiers of Darkcruigh and hired mercenaries. Many of his elite forces, such as the Red Blades, had scattered into the forest or to the other side of the river, still broken and wounded by the aftermath of the Battle of Trebant Ford.

The Prince of Coulone himself rode out with all his remaining forces to crush Harduc once and for all. His army was not much greater, whittled down by deserters who no longer saw the threat Harduc posed, and by the devastating casualties of the long war. But Prince Kirsan saw this as the final move to end the war once and for all, and he had the benefit of cavalry and land.

At dawn, the stories say, King Harduc received a message from his keep, informing him of the death of his daughter, Astera. Filled with rage and pain, he ordered his army to strike at the Prince, out of vengeance and out of despair. Kirsan's forces, ready to attack themselves, but unprepared for such a direct assault, rallied in the fields and farms on the northern border of Coulone, in what promised to be the longest, bloodiest, and last day of the Goldenward War.

Old soldiers used to say that the only victors of the Goldenward War were the crows.

* * *

Presto tried not to look at the flock of crows hunched around a pile of...something...not five paces from him. "Birdseed. Really...that's all it is." The stench was terrible. He gritted his teeth.

The stench was rotten, but there was also smoke, long streamers of which poured up over the horizon. Smoke meant fire. That smoke meant that there were people, alive people, either starting the fires or putting them out. Or running away. Which meant he would catch them eventually. Which meant healing for Hank.

The crows screeched and fought, pulling away briefly from the lump of flesh and cloth. Presto gagged, but as soon as the feeling of sickness came, it was displaced by another. Power surged up from his stomach, then rippled down from his shoulders to his fingertips. It scored a path through his nerves like electricity and ice and that single kiss from Varla.... The wave of it was so intense, Presto staggered. He could feel it there, dancing behind his hands, pushing to be released. It would be nothing to unleash it, to tear the sky apart and let slip the fire beyond. He realized how much he hated them. He hated seeing Hank hurt for him, hated the burning of his skin and the stench and the crows. The fire welled out, but Presto forced in back in, hard. He wasn't sure what would happen if that power got out, and what that would do to him. It might mean he wouldn't be able to find healing for Hank in time.

Presto tucked his hands under his armpits and trudged on, heading for the smoke. Nothing was going to stop him from getting help for Hank.

* * *

Venger's footsteps echoed against floors of polished obsidian, black as midnight. His shadow trailed along behind him, wringing its hands, but Venger ignored the demon. It had only to obey him, and that was enough. Nothing would ruin this day's events.

"All is in readiness, my Lord," Shadow Demon whispered as the two entered a large, open chamber. "As you can see, I have prepared it all."

Venger surveyed the room. Above, the open sky was filled with dark clouds, promising a storm. Although only a few hours after dawn, the sky was nearly black as night. The sun would not shine in this place today.

A black marble altar dominated the center of the room. Shackles dangled at each end. A groove cut from the stone ran down the center of the altar lengthwise. Upon the altar lay a curved dagger of some black metal, a ruby gleaming at its pommel. Next to it lay a bowl made of bright platinum, intricately carved with figures of humans, mortals, slaving under the whips and barbs of skeletal figures. The artist who had created the piece had gone mad in its crafting.

Opposite the altar, upon a single pedestal, sat the crystal skull that Shadow Demon brought out of the ruins some time before. The clear, transparent crystal eyes seemed to watch the table impassively.

In the wall above the skull, six large gemstones marked the corners of a large hexagram etched into the rock. Diamond, ruby, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, and topaz, each marking a point. Suspended in the air in front of the hexagram, held by no detectable means, hung a sturdy wooden club, out of place in its simplicity in the obsidian chamber. It shone with a golden light. The topaz of the hexagram mirrored its light, pulsing softly, like the beating of a heart.

Venger touched the club with a fingertip, feeling its power. Such youth, such vitality, that power seemed to promise. For so long, he had felt his power waning, draining from his mind as age was draining life from his body. A whimper drew his attention away.

The final ingredients were there. In two cages, low to the ground, were infants. They did not cry...the spells cast on them would keep them still to the end. In two more cages, young children, boy and girl. They too lay in unnatural sleep. Next to them, a young man and a young woman, of maybe fifteen years of age. They no longer fought their chains, but hung limply from them. It was the girl who had whimpered. Finally, a man and woman of twenty-five years, grown to adulthood. The man looked defiantly at him with crystal-blue eyes. His hair and short beard were golden-blond. The woman closed her eyes and her shoulder-length red locks hid much of her face, but her jaw was clenched with determination.

Venger's lip curled with pleasure. It was a small conceit, but he was permitted it. He was, after all, going to die this day.

* * *

The guards came for her shortly after dawn. Sheila looked up with bitter defiance as they unlocked the door, and without a word walked amongst them. They kept their faces equally impassive as they marched beside her through the gleaming corridors of the desert palace. Each wore a hauberk of overlapping steel scales and carried a curved scimitar as if they knew how to use it.

The morning sun lit the open throne room. Small knots of men and women dressed in white robes watched her silently as the guards brought her before the empty throne. Sheila kept her back stiff and her chin up.

To the left of the throne, a young woman watched her, face carefully neutral. Her black hair was long, held back by a golden band. She wore a sharp knife in the blue sash at her waist. Her face, though still, had the warm, brown eyes and intelligent, precocious mouth of Aiyesha. Sheila had not been mistaken. Aiyesha watched the thief unblinking.

To the right of the throne was one Sheila did not recognize. He was a thin, older man, his head wrapped in an elaborate turban. He clearly looked disapproving, his narrow lips pursed to a frown. He glared at her.

"Kneel before the king." A guard placed a firm hand on Sheila's shoulder and pushed her down to her knees. The other guards dropped to one knee beside her.

She looked up at the sound of firm footsteps to see a tall, well-built man ascend the steps to the throne and take his seat. Her breath caught in her throat. Dark skin, black curly beard, and a gleaming scimitar at his side that he did not relinquish. Of course, if Aiyesha was here, he would be too. Sheila gritted her teeth. All it did was show the extent of Randale's betrayal. He had made her steal from Ramoud. And now Ramoud was going to oversee her punishment. Or maybe he would let her go. More likely he would let her be flogged. She braced herself for the betrayal as her eyes watched the king steadily.

King Ramoud ascended to the throne and sat down. His face could have been carved from flint and he looked at the prisoner before him. "State the charges."

The old man to the king's right spoke. "This woman was caught breaking into the palace treasury with the intent of stealing the gold intended for our alliance with the nomads. We believe that she was the one responsible for stealing it the first time it was gathered, and has been the one to plague us in recent months. According to the sentence declared by the king, she must be flogged and her left hand must be cut off."

Sheila swallowed and flexed the fingers of her left hand. She forced her hand flat again. Ramoud had not indicated he'd known her. Still, it didn't matter. Nothing did.

"Who brings testimony?" Ramoud's voice was somber and hard.

Aiyesha stepped forward, explaining what happened in the treasury the night before. From time to time, she would glance over her shoulder at Sheila, but never for long. She, too, sounded somber, perhaps a little regretful.

"Is there any other testimony to confirm these facts?" Ramoud looked around the throne room. A few guards stepped forward, one by one, giving similar accounts of the night before.

"And to the other charges? Of previous thefts?"

A single man in wealthy clothing bowed before the throne. "The night of the first theft, I saw two figures cross the courtyard. One wore a cloak of that color. I only saw for a second before they disappeared behind a pillar."

Sheila held her face rigid and cold, letting no emotion betray her. Ramoud frowned and folded his hands. "Why did you not call the guards?"

The man hesitated. "I was not certain what I had seen. It was late. I didn't..."

Ramoud raised his hand to cut the speaker off. "Anyone else?"

The man next to the King spoke, his voice restrained to strict formality. "She was seen in the presence of a partner in the inn in town. He fled before our soldiers could arrive."

Ramoud then allowed himself a single sigh as he steepled his fingers. "Very well." His voice was emotionless as he spoke to Sheila. "You have heard the charges and testimony arrayed against you. Do you have anything to say?"

Sheila slowly looked up, her eyes dark and cold as she stared at this man who once had claimed her as a daughter, and yet had not even acknowledged knowing her now. Well, she wouldn't betray Randale to them. She wouldn't be the traitor, even if she were betrayed, again. Her lips pursed in a bitter frown. "No. I don't. Do whatever you like. I don't care. I just don't care any more."

Ramoud sighed. "Very well."

Aiyesha stepped closer, and laid her hand on her father's wrist. "Father, please. Don't you recognize her? This is..."

Ramoud raised his hand. "I know, my daughter. I know." His voice was heavy, none of its usual laughter.

The old man to Ramoud's right stepped forward again. "Even if you know the girl, the sentence has been made." He glared at the king darkly. "You gave us your word."

Ramoud sighed. "I know, Councilor."

He looked down at Sheila again, and climbed to his feet. "I have heard the testimony, and may all men know that I swear to see that justice is done." His voice was loud, carrying across the throne room. All of the men and women in the room bowed as one in acknowledgement of the ancient promise.

"According to the testimony I have heard, I feel no doubt that the accused has stolen." A slight murmur arose in the throne room, silenced when the king raised his hand. "She has stolen...once. The testimony given does not convince me she has stolen before. Her partner may have been responsible for the previous crimes."

Some of the observers grumbled softly, but none dared argue with the king.

Ramoud sighed deeply.

"The word of the King has already determined the sentence. Forty lashes of the whip. It shall be carried out this afternoon."

Sheila dropped her head. She knew she should feel relieved that she was not losing her hand, but she could not bring herself to feel it. Of course Ramoud would not protect her.

Betrayed again.

She did not say a word as the guards led her back to her cell.

* * *

At first there was a lot of pain. Hank's back, his whole body, cried out with the agony of the arrow wound. A chill had crept into his arms and legs, and he was so tired he could barely move. But as he lay with his face pressed into the unicorn's silken mane, smelling warmth and violets, he could feel the pain diminish. It was not the numbness that had been stealing into him, but more as though the hurt were being washed out of him and down into the ground. He felt refreshed and clean, as if he had showered in the purest waterfall in the world. As the pain leeched out of him, he felt something powerful, something incredibly alive, filling the void it left behind. That life gave him the strength to sit up. He straightened on the unicorn's back and looked around for the first time.

Hank gasped. The unicorn ran with a speed unlike anything Hank had ever known. He could feel the wind blowing on his face. Perhaps it was some gift of her magic that brought each thing he looked at into perfect focus as she ran. He could see trilliums and bluebells sprouting at her hooves below him, springing from the earth in little green shoots, shedding their crumbs of earth, and unfolding in brilliant colors. As he watched, they would curl up and die, descending back into the earth to begin the cycle anew.

Swallows swooped and danced around them, laughing and singing on the wind. As Hank watched in wonder, they'd soar around him, mate, lay tiny speckled eggs, and die for less than a second before they'd hatch anew from the next generation. They learned to fly again, until the whole sky was filled with flight and music.

It was as if he was watching life, sped up and swelling all around him. He could hear the unicorn's laughter, the sound of chimes. Half-laughing, half-crying at the beauty of the world around him, Hank called to her, "What is this?"

He could feel her response inside him. *This is life. This is the world. It is of you, as you are part of it. It wants to heal you, Ranger. It wants you to know your place. I have come to teach you these things.*

Waves of life washed over him, and Hank could sense the remnants of that life in him, as it was in each living thing. He could sense the bonds that connected him to the land, buried deep in the earth. The unicorn sped on. Mountains, floating high above the earth, deserts with sparkling gem-like oases, marshes and swamps, wide open plains and forests deep as night. The unicorn's feet sent the splashing water of an azure sea streaming to either side of him as dolphins and great sea creatures emerged to watch them ride.

He passed the ways of man, fields of grain and smoke and war, then back into a forest as the Unicorn's pace slowed and came to a stop. Stunned and out of breath, Hank tumbled from her back.

"That...was amazing." He stood, still light-headed with the wonders he had seen.

The unicorn watched him silently. She flicked her head, gesturing with her golden horn towards his back.

The reminder brought back the memory of the agony of his injury and he choked as he pulled the blood-soaked bandages aside. He still felt strong, but the wound bled freely. He staggered.

The unicorn seemed to expect something. Hank was confused, but then remembered all of the life that surrounded them on their journey. "It wants to heal me." It did. He could feel the life of the small clearing pushing towards him, reaching out for the opportunity to ease his pain and bind his wounds. And all it asked was for him to acknowledge that he was part of that life. He did gladly. He reached out to the life around him. He could feel it seeping into him, knitting together his flesh as he watched. It was in him now. It was wonderful.

When he looked up, the unicorn was gone, but the air rang with the sound of her laughter. It always would.

Hank hitched his shirt shut and picked up his bow. He felt weak, but he was ready for anything. The land would give him all the strength he needed.

* * *

Eric and Diana held hands shyly, each glancing at the other when they thought they couldn't be seen. Soon, they both knew, they would have to return to the camp. The Red Blades were far from the front, awaiting orders, but expected none. They were so broken that even King Harduc would not command them to ride again so soon.

But the soldiers would find Eric, and Diana, if they were needed. For today, they could enjoy what peace just being together could bring.

* * *

The sun reached towards its apex, but no light pierced the grim storm clouds that swirled around Venger's tower of obsidian. Venger walked slowly to the table and picked up the knife, turning it slowly in his hands.

Holding it carefully, he turned to the victims chained to the wall. The man swallowed, but looked steadily at him, eyes full of wounded questions.

"You want to know what is going to happen. You want to know why."

The man said nothing, just watched him steadily.

Venger nodded once. "The ritual will begin shortly, when the sun reaches its highest point in the sky. I suppose I shall tell you what is about to occur, what will happen, so that my last thoughts as a living man are remembered and recorded." He glanced at Shadow Demon, who bowed deeply.

For a moment, the only sound was the heavy breathing. Venger swept past the altar, and put the knife back in its place. "Very well."

"Nine hundred and eighty years ago, I was born with the spark of magic. It burned strong in me. After I suffered through my tests, my parents chose to see me sent away. They were wealthy, powerful...royal. They would not risk my potential for disaster. Banished to the edge of the Empire, I was placed in the care of a wizard, a sycophant of the court a mere fifty years older than myself.

"He treated me as his own child and I learned much from watching him. But his methods for using his magic, I despised. He would only use his powers to spy on the comings and goings of the world. He would entrance or manipulate servants to follow him, but would not show me his magics. My parents' kingdom was suffering under a terrible threat, but he did nothing to protect it. He had great power, but he refused to use it near me. He seemed afraid of teaching me more.

"As I grew older, I despised him for not winning his victories on his own. I hated him for his weakness and for the way he used others. He was as fork-tongued as the courtiers in my parent's palace. He even dared lie to me, at the end, claiming I was his son in truth. More manipulations. I refused to have anything to do with his form of sorcery, what little he would show me. I struck out on my own, learned in my own ways. For I realized that he was not only controlling others; he was controlling me."

"But as I grew, my power grew. And with that power, I attracted the attention of...forces...I shall not name. I was offered the strength to escape, to strike at those who would harm my kingdom, to shun my mortal fetters of fear and uncertainty and rise to freedom from all who would attempt to manipulate or lie to me. I seized that power!

"My mentor knew. He understood what I had taken hold of, and was desperate to stop me. I do not know what source of power he seized upon, but he too finally chose to grasp at power in order to thwart my aspirations. Since that time, you mortals have called him The Dungeonmaster.

"For centuries we fought. In our battles we learned from each other. His first action was to rally the nations together against me. But fear works as well as lies and promises to gather armies, and I no longer hesitated at such a direct threat. My armies of orcs cracked the nations.

"We fought with spells, and areas of the land remain scarred with the magic of our ancient battles. We fought like gods! I crushed The Dungeonmaster beneath my power, but he would still send out forces and rally to oppose me.

"And then...after nearly a thousand years of battle, I find myself dying. My power has been slipping away from me like blood from a black heart. I believe Dungeonmaster too watches his power drain away, but it takes little power for those willing to manipulate and lie to find forces to ally with you. And so, now, he is strong and I am weak. My armies are scattered. Fear no longer drives them as it once did. You have forgotten me.

"No more. I need not use others to find a new source of power. Eventually, Dungeonmaster will diminish and die, and then he will send no more forces against me. But I...I will live. Forever! Unlike previous spells I have cast to retain my youth, this victory will be eternal...for I shall allow death to take her price. I shall freeze my body at the point of death now while I still have power left in me. I shall place my soul there, into the crystal skull. The skull has the power to command all of the dead that rest in the rotting places of the earth. But it will only obey the soul within it; it hears no other command. It shall become my soul, and I shall arise anew, with new armies to meet any challengers that Dungeonmaster might arrange with his last lies!"

Venger stood, overwhelmed for a moment with the vision of his future glory. Then he took one deep breath.

Shadow Demon whispered, "It is time, My Lord."

Venger nodded once. "Then let the ritual begin."

He walked to the altar and began to chant as Shadow Demon opened the smallest of the cages.

* * *

Once again, the guards came and took her from her cell, and Sheila went with them silently. She could lie to herself and say she was not afraid, but she had felt the lash of the whip before, and seen how it could tear up a body. She was frightened. She poured all of her strength into retreating back into the shadows, hiding her fear and emotion.

Now she was alone. The fear scrabbled with claws at her heart, and she pressed it down. No emotion. Now she was alone, she could die. It didn't matter any more.

The guard behind her spoke softly. "Girl, it is difficult, but the whip will hurt more if you hold yourself as rigid as you are. If you remain this rigid, your own body will contribute to the strength of the Punisher's blows." He sighed when he saw that Sheila would not respond.

The guards did not speak again. They led her to a large, basement room, isolated and undecorated, with crates pressed against the wall as though its normal purpose was storage. One of the pillars in the room, a squat, ugly thing, had an iron ring imbedded in it. By the pillar stood the largest man Sheila had ever seen. The only other person present, other than the guards, was a tall man, in plain, simple robes, hooded and cloaked. He stayed silent, and Sheila could not see his face.

The guard who had spoken to her before sighed as he shackled her wrists to the iron ring overhead, and stepped back briskly. In a measured tone, he recited to the nearly-empty room, "You have been found guilty of the charge of theft from the Royal Treasury. The required sentence is forty lashes of the whip, to be completed with the striking of the noon-day bells. By the mercy of the council, your punishment has been seen fit to be private, so that none but your family need bear witness your shame. May justice be served." The guard turned crisply on his heel, signaled to the other men, and marched out of the storeroom.

The door shut behind them.

Only two others remained behind: the large man who carried the whip, and the cloaked figure. Neither looked at her, but remained impassively turned away, waiting for the bells.

Sheila let herself sag against the cool stone of the pillar. '_How has it come to this?' _ Fear and regret stirred in her heart as the minutes ticked by, and now, with only these two present, it seemed so useless to maintain the facade of icy strength any longer. These two would see that facade shattered soon enough in her cries of pain. They did not care. '_People cared once...I remember. My mother, my father...my brother. They loved me. They wouldn't have left me alone.'_

A tiny voice inside her answered her thoughts. '_They were not the only ones who loved you'._

She wanted to deny it, but... '_Presto. Diana. Eric.' _She paused. '_Hank.' _A wash of memories misted her vision with images of the hundreds of little ways her friends had shown their love.

...

"_This is stupid!" Eric wailed as he threw himself in front of the torrent of flames from the dragon's breath, sheltering her behind his shield._

_...  
_

"_Here! I know it's not very good..." Presto grimaced as he held out the lopsided green and purple polka-dotted flower and brought a smile to her face despite her throbbing ankle._

_...  
_

"_Well, us girls have to stick together you know!" Diana smirked as she returned to the bathing hole after chasing the boys off with her staff._

...

"_Sheila, I would never betray you," Hank gazed steadily down at her in the moonlight, sincerity shining in his warm blue eyes._

...

A lonely tear trickled down the young woman's cheek. '_But I'm still alone.' _

The voice in her heart did not taunt, but it refused to be silenced. '_You are alone because that was the choice you made. You left them alone. You gave up on them. You would not let them follow.'_

She wanted to protest, but it was the truth. She sagged in the chains, resigned.

A bell tolled, the deep tone carrying softly into the quiet storeroom.

The man with the whip stepped up behind her. In a deep, flat voice, he rumbled, "It is time."

The man in the cloak straightened, and reached out a dark-skinned hand to hold back the other. "Yes. It is time for the punishment to be meted out. Unbind her."

Confused, Sheila twisted her head to look towards the cloaked figure. The man with the whip reached up and loosened her shackles. She pulled away from him with fear, looking at both men without comprehension. "I don't understand."

The one who had ordered her unbinding lowered his hood. It was the dark, strong features of King Ramoud. The king did not answer her directly, but turned and spoke to the man who carried the fearsome whip. "Punisher, you know that it is my right to stand here as close family of this criminal."

The Punisher nodded once.

"She is my daughter."

The Punisher nodded once again.

Ramoud stripped off his cloak completely. Sheila could see that he was clad only in a pair of plain, white trousers, and the muscles of his back and chest rippled with the same strength he had had when he first appeared to her at that Oasis, so long ago. Ramoud's voice rolled with the power she remembered. "Then you know that it is my crime, more than hers, that she is being punished for this day. I abandoned my daughter when she needed me. I failed to teach her and guide her in the paths of honor. She was too young, and I let her leave by herself, without my protection, into the ways of danger. I failed in my responsibilities as a father." He paused, filling his lungs with a deep breath. "I therefore demand to claim the punishment that is due to her, that my guilt may be shown and my responsibilities be fulfilled."

The Punisher nodded a final time. Ramoud walked forward, and allowed his hands to be locked into the shackles that once had held Sheila's wrists. Sheila's eyes were wide with surprise, quickly followed by concern and a flood of tears as the whip was raised.

"One."

The whip cracked, before Sheila could even realize what was happening. It struck like a bolt of black lightening, and where it landed, a welt of red flame burned across Ramoud's dark skin. The king gave a small grunt, but said nothing. Sheila covered her mouth with her hands.

"Two."

The whip struck again.

'_Why is he doing this? He is the king...why is he doing this for me?' _Watching the blows fall, Sheila could imagine them falling across her own skin. '_How much they must hurt...'_

The quiet voice from before answered her. '_He is doing this because he loves you.'_

"Five."

Her mind clawed at the question, scrabbling for the answers. '_He's the king. If he didn't want to see me scourged, why didn't he just order me set free?'_

The other voice in her head, the reason, had a calm answer for her. '_Because he is the king. It is his responsibility to enforce the law.'_

"Eleven." A slow trickle of blood was beginning to drip down Ramoud's back, but he kept himself steady and made little more than a grunt when each blow was struck.

Sheila felt the hard shell of ice she had held around her heart shatter as Ramoud's pain struck at her. '_He does not deserve this. He didn't steal anything. I deserve this punishment.'_

That quiet voice inside her was unyielding. '_Yes. You stole, and ran away from your friends, and made some foolish choices. But. . . .'_

A shaft of confusing light pierced the heavy black clouds of Sheila's newest guilt. '_But?' _The voice was her...the her that she knew she called on when she was helping others. '_But...' _She lowered her hands from her face and looked at Ramoud.

"Twenty-one."

Ramoud lifted his head against the pain and his jasper-brown eyes looked steadily at her. He winced as the whip came down again, and then twisted the corner of his mouth up into the smallest, saddest of smiles. Sheila could see, along with pain, Ramoud's love, his disappointment, and, strangest of all...forgiveness.

'_But?'_

The voice was silent for a long time, as if her own mind was having a hard time accepting the truth. '_You...I...deserve punishment for stealing....but...not...not for Bobby.'_

Sheila burst into tears as the flood of emotions swept over her. "Bobby! I killed Bobby!"

"Thirty-nine..."

Ramoud's voice was tired, as he answered her, filled with pain. "That...price...then....it has been paid also."

"Forty."

The whip came down a final time. The Punisher quickly dropped the lash to the ground and hurried to unfasten the king's chains. Blood flowed freely down his back, but he managed to straighten and move over to Sheila, kneeling beside her, wrapping the sobbing girl in his arms.

"He would not want you to punish yourself forever. Oh, my daughter...." His voice shook with pain and compassion, "Oh, my daughter...I am sorry."

Sheila clung to him and wept.

* * *

It was happening again.

Presto recognized the feeling within him, the blood growing hot, the seductive call of the flames within his reach. Just as it had in the village. No, it was not the same. It was a thousand times worse. There, he had been angry at a casual insult. But now he knew the reason for his hatred and anger.

The slaughter was everywhere. Bodies, tumbled and broken like leaves tossed aside in a storm. Blood drenching the hem of his robes. Offal and flies. And, oblivious, seeming to be blind to the horror that surrounded them, they were still killing each other.

When he had seen the first men on their feet, not moaning and dying, he had called out to them. "My friend needs help! He's been shot! Please somebody, help me!" How pathetic his words must have sounded to the soldiers. They were trying to stay alive themselves, fighting on with arrows sticking out of shields and bodies. Their own friends and companions were dying at their feet. They didn't answer him; they lurched away from him where they could.

Presto could not see the feverish gleam of madness in his own face, a face smeared with blood and sweat and horror and despair.

The air was filled with the ringing of steel on steel. Presto knew he should feel afraid. If he were wise, he'd run as far as he could from this bloody battlefield, back to Hank, and wait for the fighting to end. But he couldn't leave these people fighting a terrible battle that he knew, in his heart, had no reason behind it. '_All this slaughter for nothing_!' He had to stop it somehow.

He stumbled forward, into the heart of the fighting. The anger inside him bubbled up in fresh, hot waves. Mounted horsemen reared and stabbed at each other.

The fire spilled through, billowing around his hands, and the horsemen and soldiers near him backed away in fear at his burning eyes and furious expression. But the battlefield was a sea of chaos, and only those closest to him could see.

"STOP IT!" the young man screamed. "STOP THIS NOW!!"

The shout rose above the hoarse battlecries and screams of the wounded, but no one stopped the desperate combat.

The power poured from Presto's burning heart, fueled by the horror of the battle, the rage at the desecration of man by man, the worry for Hank. Presto's own sense of isolation, and fear of his abilities. Visions of a dream he'd once had spilled into his mind, of Eric, mounted on a steed like these, bearing down on a pike-carrying Diana, oblivious to the battle.

"I WILL STOP YOU NOW!!"

The fire poured from him in waves across the battlefield.

* * *

Captain Durnst gave a hoarse battlecry as he tried to break through the cavalry and footsoldiers to reach King Harduc's side. Of all the days of fighting in this bloody war, this was the worst. The sounds of death and dying were a nightmare undertone to the cacophony of swords and armor. What a foolish waste!

Durnst's only satisfaction as he hacked his way through the field was that his men, the Red Blades, were safely away from the fighting. He wished he could be there himself, but even a mercenary company had honor. He could not allow his employer to die without having the Red Blades at his side. Rather than order his tattered troops out to die needlessly, he rode himself, hoping to convince Harduc to quit his madness and leave the field. And if he did not...the Captain had made arrangements. The new Captain of the Blades would be inexperienced. But he was strong, and willing to learn. He would be able to lead the Blades well.

His horse reared, panicked, and Durnst pulled him up tight. A young man, white robes drenched in blood, strode past him, screaming, towards the knot of battle where King Harduc and Prince Kirsan struggled in their mad fight. Fire poured off his bare hands and dripped to the ground, but he seemed oblivious.

Durst could barely make out the words, but it seemed like he was screaming for the battle to stop. He reached out to the lad...

And a wave of light and pain washed over him.

* * *

At the instant of the release of the flames, Presto realized that the control had slipped. It had escaped him. '_COME BACK!!' _

Somehow, he mentally reached out, clutching at the strands of fire that were pouring off his body. He felt as those he was trying to pick up a boulder with his fingernails, scrabbling to bring the spell back into him. It was too much.

'_Burning...they'll burn....the heat....the LIGHT!'_

A dim memory of physics, from a past so long ago and a world so different than the Realm that it could hardly follow the same rules, flashed into his mind. Gritting his teeth, Presto poured himself into a transformation, converting the heat from the racing flames into light.

'_The Light!'_

* * *

The pain was gone as swiftly as it had come, but a brilliant white light followed it, before Durnst could even close his eyes or open his mouth to scream.

He slammed his eyes shut, but they hurt anyway, a sunburst of brilliant oranges and whites fading into darkness behind his eyelids. He gripped the reins of his horse hard to keep it from rearing with panic.

When he slowly opened his eyes, the darkness remained. He could hear his horse's frightened breathing, the moans of pain. But the sound of fighting had stopped.

And somewhere at his horse's feet, he could hear the sound of a young man, crying.

* * *

Commoners carried tales of the Basilisk to distant lands, a monster awakened in the battle whose very image caused blindness. But seven hundred veterans of the Goldenward War's final battle had a different story to tell, for the historians who recorded it. A story of the day they followed King Harduc, mad with the pain of his daughter's death, onto a bloody battlefield stretched across acres of open farmland. A story of hearing a scream for the battle to end, and then a wave of heat, a brilliant light, and a darkness that did not end.

King Harduc dropped his sword to the ground and wept from empty eyes. Prince Kirsan of Coulone was thrown from his horse, and suffered a broken leg. How do you fight a war when your army has been struck blind?

The historians recorded both tales , of course. It was their duty to remember such things, even when the blind veterans of the Goldenward War had passed away. They recorded how the healers and farmers emerged cautiously onto the battlefield to find the wounded, the dying, and hundreds of men stumbling blindly, or sitting confused, staring blankly into space.

And at the center of the strange effect...a golden-haired ranger, a wizard in white...and no answers.

* * *

The magic club pulsed with power, drawing and focusing the might found in the six glowing gemstones around it. A shaft of pure, golden light struck the crystal skull on the plinth, and it shone in the blackened room with a brilliant glow.

The winged figure of a man stepped into the beam, but the skull continued to glow. The figure, who had been called in the days of his life Venger, raised a golden bowl to his lips and drank deeply.

A thick red liquid spilled over his lips and down his throat, staining his fangs red. He coughed at the bitter taste, but drank until the bowl was empty, and threw it to the ground beside him.

The poison was swift. He could feel it boiling his throat and belly, sending tendrils around his heart and tightening about it. The tendrils squeezed, and the muscles in his arms and legs constricted in agony. Still Venger would not cry out, chanting unholy rites. His throat constricted and the chant dampened to a mere whisper, and then, finally Venger screamed.

His body slumped to the ground. The beam broke past him and surged back into the glowing skull, but as it went, it carried with it some black and twisted fragment of Venger that remained, hanging in the air, as he fell. The golden light of the skull turned an angry violet, beams of light radiating from it in the darkness.

The lifeless, winged body on the floor twitched and rose awkwardly.

And then it laughed with triumph.


	12. Messages

**Chapter 12: Messages**

_...Hic toti mortalis hospes est...strangers alien to the element of magic that, kin to fire and water, infuses this Realm. Human bodies and human wills may master this element, but do suffer greatly the consequence. Those born with such gifts of mastery are rare, and are tested gravely by the trials of melding the alien and the mortal. The Wise call these trials the tests of magic. _

_The Commoners do name the first test 'Witchfever', for it comes as a fever most severe. It cometh to gifted children soon after the age of ten years. Fearful illusions, mysterious fires, the movement of objects, and similar magical effects may accompany the illness as the beleaguered child uses the power to seek aid and comfort. These first signs may signal the strengths of the child in the various areas of mastery: Divination, Transformation, Transmutation, Enchantment, Illusion, Conjuration, Necromancy, Abjuration, and Invocation. An apprentice will normally be limited to but one or two such forms of power._

_The learning of magical power comes swifter after the Witchfever, and t'is a good age to take apprentices._

_Apprentices must oft be protected from Commoners, for many of them know, but do not understand, the development of apprentices. They call it a madness, and fear it greatly, when in truth it is a sudden growth in power among those apprentices strong enough to experience it. The development of power is an irregular process, and never more dangerous and fickle as when an apprentice is already undergoing the changes that make them man and woman. Power will be tapped with strong emotion, and that power will cause greater emotion, until, inevitably, it will be released. For young men of the age, this emotion oft is anger, and many towns and villages have been destroyed by a boy's frustration. More oft for young women, such magics are turned inward, causing them to kill or maim themselves as doubt and shame move them. The Commoners will seek to either remove or destroy the apprentice before they can cause them harm. Oft the magics released will kill the apprentice. I have lost three fine young lads to my teaching in this way._

_Most who survive the second test have bars placed upon their power. Their mind has reached some resolution to control the forces at their beck and call, to stop them from doing greater harm. I myself, for all my power, find myself unable to cast without my trusty spellbook before me. I do not know why this is, save that for some it is a source of great frustration, and for others, a great blessing. I consider it so. Perhaps it is my own fear that I will unleash the forces that I did in my youth. Many who survive the second test go insane._

_About the third test, I can say nothing. To this day, I cannot say if my decisions were right or wrong. They were the best choices that I could make for myself. Perhaps, if I had chosen differently, this age would be different, a better, more peaceful time. I do not know. Instead, young magician, I can offer only this riddle: If life is a game, and we are the pieces, we can still choose not to play._

-- Libris Arcana Merlin

...

Presto sighed as he pushed the heavy tome away. The lectern unhelpfully started to wander out of the way, until he tapped it to make it stop. It's not that he didn't find Merlin's treatises fascinating. He just wished he had had them three years ago, on the battlefield near Wending Forest. But the sun was shining long, narrow, shafts of dusty light through the arrowslits of Melchior's library. And Merlin's riddles were worse than Dungeonmaster's! And she had promised...

The motes of dust in one of the sunbeams began to swirl and gather. Presto's eyes brightened and hurried over, with a gesture of his hand stilling all other breezes within the room. In tiny golden specks and sparkles, the figure of a young woman coalesced. He whispered, "Hello, Varla," and held his breath.

...

"_Dear Presto,"_ the golden figure glanced around and smiled sweetly. _"I hope you are well when you get this message. I am doing very well. Father just bought two new cows. He's so proud. Mother said if he doesn't stop talking about them to everyone he meets, he's going to find himself in the pasture sleeping with them. She's only teasing him though. She is glad to see him so happy._

"_I was wondering when you might be able to come visit us. I would come visit you...of course I would...but it's such a terribly long way and I'm frightened of leaving the village that long. My illusions have kept us safe from the creatures of the swamp, but I feel like something terrible is about to happen._

"_Please be careful, Presto. I think my heart would break into a million pieces if anything ever happened to you. I think about you every day. _

"_Love always...Varla."_

_...  
_

Presto grinned, a little regretfully, as he stretched his fingers out to touch the swiftly disappearing illusion. Sometimes, if everything went just right, he could still feel HER in the motes of light and shadow.

Not today, though. It was too far, really, anyway. He sighed bent over the book again, translating the difficult text as best he could. '_What will I write back to her?'_

* * *

In the middle of a landscape so rocky and desolate, only living things with spikes and thorns as sharp as their environment eek out an existence on poison mists, there sits a tiny house, still standing despite the devastation around it. Inside the house is a wooden trestle table, etched with the idle graffiti of a lazy pen. On the table lay a dusty book, its cover cut and torn.

A cold wind blew across the cratered land, sending the door of the house banging loudly against the doorframe. It turned the leaves of the book, which rattled as the pages flipped to fall open on the last written page of the book, where it came to rest.

...

_This will be my last entry. What I had feared would happen has come to pass. My apprentice...my own son. . . Corwin, had the power. I think it is my fault. I kept so much from him. Even that he is my son by Queen Daarshiva, not King Stefan's as he believes. I tried to hold him back, keep the knowledge of his potential from him, show him how to use his power in smaller, subtler ways that would not attract the attention of the Greatest Powers, but that was not to be. He chafed under my teaching, disagreed with my methods. But rather than go, he stayed. I thought I was reaching him. I thought he understood._

_I was wrong._

_He sought Tiamat, and she drove him to this. His power drew the attention of...one that may not be named. Would that I could spell out in detail the truth, to warn all other young magicians of power, but that would risk drawing the attention of the One each time the words were read. I understand now why no others wrote of this, just hinted...gave riddles, like the riddles of Merlin. I wish that hero were here now. But he is long dead and that is not to be. _

_Corwin has made his decision. He calls himself Venger now. _

_I feel the offer inside me again, renewed stronger than before. I will give myself to the Powers, who barely worried themselves with me before. At least I know it will be for goodness that I will be used. There is no doubt in the choice, now. Someone must stop him. I can. I will not allow him to destroy everything in the name of the One. Though I cannot kill him, I will become a barrier...a cage to bind his power in, until such time as I, or another, find a way to defeat him forever. I will use every warrior I can muster, crack the world if need be, but, I will contain him. I will make this realm a prison, so the power of the One cannot be spread._

_I will be The Dungeon Master._

_...  
_

Perhaps some celestial force, for good or for evil, had sent the cold wind as an omen, a message or a prophesy of things to come. But no one was in the empty cottage to read the words scrawled upon the page. And outside, the bones clawing their way out of the scorched earth had other priorities in mind.

* * *

A single lamp illuminated the large mahogany desk, reflecting off the polished surface with a reddish glow. It cast into stark lines and shadows the narrow, stern face of Steven Montgomery. The ridges of his features carved his face into a perpetual frown, and his dark eyes were tight with weariness and stubborn determination.

Besides a few gold paperweights, tokens of appreciation from his board of trustees, all that lay on the desk was a pile of correspondence. It had become a ritual for the man over the last eight years. Every evening, he would come to his formal office to review everything sent to him about the case. Phone messages sent to his reward line. Letters. Newspaper articles. Every shred of evidence found or discovery made. Each evening, he would file it all carefully away, to be read and re-read. Some days, there was nothing, and he would go through the old files instead. Some days, like today, there was an abundance. His long, elegant hands picked up a gold letter opener, and sliced through the first envelope -- an expense report from one of the private investigators.

Steven never let the O'Brien's or the Curry's know about this ritual; he merely reported to them any developments of interest. They should not have to wade through this detritus of human greed and foolishness. They should not have to be the rigid face that coldly arranged the press-conferences and publicity events to draw attention to their children's case, nor should they have to deal with criminals and thugs. He was determined to protect them. He would be the strong face for them. And if they, or Detective Pendleton, or anyone else, thought him cold, so be it. He needed that strength to do what he had to do. A telephone message from the tip-line. "Sheila has been seen in Graceland, pregnant with Elvis's baby." '_Of course_.'

Amanda knew he was there. A single mother, with nothing and no one else to go to, she had turned to him on a few occasions. He would receive her phone call at this desk late at night, while he read over the day's scraps. He would read to her each letter. It comforted her, knowing that he was there, doing this duty. And that was good enough for him.

The last letter was unusual. The envelope was old and battered, addressed to him directly rather than his call center. No return address, but the postal stamp was from Pandora, Wyoming. The blade in his hands slid neatly under the seal and tore it open. Inside was an equally-battered piece of paper, lined like something torn from a child's three-ring binder, written across in a neat, curling hand.

...

_Check amusement park history: External resource acquisition Project TransAtlantic Tunnel -- 1949._  
_Transatlantic Tunnel re-opened 8 yrs ago.  
Ready to start the drilling SOON. Hurry._

_...  
_

Of course, it was not signed. _ 'Eight years ago? TransAtlantic Tunnel?'_ Steven Montgomery steepled his fingers. This note deserved some thought.

* * *

_Please help us, honorable Lord Ramoud._

_Stone River Pass has long been our best trade route to carry silks and spices to your lands. Many wars and much blood has been shed keeping that passage open, and now none doubt your claim to the area. But that legacy of bloodshed seems now to have caught up to your people. The dead have begun to rise from their shallow graves, and our caravan traders can no longer move freely through the pass. Everyone who travels there at night is attacked. There are few now, and a small unit can defeat them. The Amazon warrior we hired to coordinate our defense has been laid low. Their numbers grow with each passing day. Soon, I fear the passage will be closed forever._

_I know you have powerful allies. Please aid us in fighting back this threat before we are cut off completely. Once the dead have filled the pass, they will only have you to turn upon next._

_...  
_

King Ramoud angrily crushed the parchment in his fist. '_Eleven.' _Eleven such requests, from his allies, from his own people, even from his ambassadors. Some evil was afoot in the boundaries of his lands. And perhaps beyond.

* * *

"Sir! A message from North Fork village." The young man gave a crisp salute and set a folded letter on the table. After a nod, he turned neatly and stroked out, the tent flaps beating the air behind him.

Eric glanced ruefully at Diana, who shrugged. _Young man? What is happening to me?_ the Cavalier thought. The soldier who had delivered the message had to be three years older than him, at least. The responsibility Eric now held aged him. He went to re-tie the tent flaps.

"What does it say?" Captain Durnst asked. He was seated at the table, and brushed his hand across the surface, sweeping up the letter and holding it out.

Diana gently took it from him. "I'll read it."

...

_To the Commander of the Red Blades,_

_ Our village of North Fork has been attacked five times in the last two weeks by zombies risen from their graves. Normally we would turn to Prince Kirsan and Coulone for aid, but word has reached us that the armies of Coulone are broken and the Red Blades are serving temporarily in their stead. Please help us!_

_...  
_

A single look was exchanged between the two commanders of the Blades, and Captain Dunst nodded once. Eric crossed the tent in two long strides, and bellowed "Saddle the horses! We ride today!"

* * *

An early dancing pair of leaves were tossed on a playful breeze. They carried with them the scent of autumn, and the hint of a summer just past. They drifted above the canopy of leaves that surrounded the bald hilltop before settling somewhere in the changing woods. The sitting Ranger watched them fall and closed his eyes, just as he had been taught.

His lungs expanded slowly, nose and mouth tasting the air, the dust blown from the rich woodland soils below him. A beautiful day of autumn, but the young man's face twisted in revulsion.

'_Corruption' _said the wind.

'_Corruption' _said the earth.

On the edge of a cliff many miles to the north, another Ranger crouched above the sea of pines veiled by a light mountain mist. The tiny campfire near him flickered in the breeze, heating a copper cup of water. The Ranger breathed deep, the taste of mists and smoke brushing against his lips.

'_Corruption' _said the fire.

'_Corruption'_ said the waters.

The aging man straightened, and swept up the cup. He crushed the fire out with his boot, and made his way down the cliff-face.

* * *

_Dear Varla,_

_Thank you for your letter! Things here are great. Well, mostly great. Eric and Diana are with the Blades. The Blades won't come near the Tower, so I haven't seen them for a long time. Hank has been away too. I don't think he likes it in the keep. But other than that things have been fine! I can't wait to tell you what I've been studying. . . ._


	13. The Unquiet Dead

**Chapter 13: The Unquiet Dead**

It always began like this. Smoke twisted into the air in dark gray columns, stark against a blue autumn sky. It was not the first time that Donovan had witnessed such silent testimony to a night-time terror, but he had prayed he would never see it here. This place had become home to him. The village of Standwell.

The craggy-faced ranger looked down on the smoking ruins of the village, much as he had three years ago when he came this way with his apprentice, Hank. Then, it had been weather-beaten but serviceable, same as it had looked every year since Donovan first settled in the area. Now its gray walls had been pulled down in places. Broken arrows bloomed from the hillside like bunches of wildflowers. There was the stink of burning and gravedirt in the air.

Donovan crouched by the roadside before advancing further, examining the tracks. "Undead," he grumbled, making out the marks of dragging, stumbling feet and rotting boots_. 'The villagers must have fired the buildings.'_

His only response was the heavy buzzing of a few flies nearby. The Ranger did not bother to see what they had settled on.

Donovan avoided the village center. There would be time to bury the bodies later. Instead, he followed the path he'd come years before with his apprentice, to a pretty cottage and a lush garden on the outskirts of town.

...

The cottage was not burning, and the garden still could have been a jungle with its riots of roses and daylilies. But it was not unscarred. The fence by the road had been broken in a couple of places, and many of the chrysanthemums and daisies had been crushed. To his trained eye, it was easy to see the signs of combat. There were no signs of movement outside, however. Donovan pushed through the broken garden gate, up the pathway to the house.

The grisly spectacle of a giant creeper vine wrapped tightly around the broken remnants of a zombie corpse greeted him on the path to the house. '_Still holding your own, Madelaine?' _he thought as he edged around it. There was further evidence of floral warfare. Tattered clothing ripped on rose thorns, and suspicious shaped mounds lay under the dark mulched earth. The door hung canted on its hinges, but a bar held it shut. The ranger hooked the end of his bow under the bar and pushed it up and aside, readying himself for anything. A wave of relief washed over him, though, to see his old friend again. He allowed himself to hope.

The house still smelled of dried flowers and herbal tea. The bed had been tossed up against the wall, and his feet cracked against the shards of pottery on the floor. Relief flooded through him when he saw the figure, wrapped in a blanket, seated comfortably in the old rocking chair.

"Madelaine."

"Donovan. So good of you to come." The plump woman sat in her rocking chair, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and another across her lap. "I'm sorry if I don't get up." Her voice was like the crumbling of dried rose petals.

The ranger lowered his bow and knelt by her chair, "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. Are you all right?"

Madelaine smiled, resting her hand over the top of his. "Well enough. The dead. . . zombies from the river, skeletons from the graveyard, attacked. Hundreds of them, fighting together. As if commanded by a higher will. The village. . . ." She trailed off, looking pained.

"I saw. I think survivors made their way south." He would not say how many.

"Good. Good." The healer turned away, hiding her expression. "I don't suppose you could make me a cup of tea, could you?"

"Of course." He got to his feet, and went to the fireplace to start the kindling. "Do you know what they were after?"

Madelaine sagged when his back was turned, closing her eyes. "No. My garden could barely hold them off. We were fighting hand to hand at the door. I think. . . I think they just wanted to kill. To add to their numbers. They only retreated with the dawn."

Donovan set the kettle over the small fire he had built. "I have sensed a corruption in the earth. And the undead have never been coordinated like this before."

The healer was quiet for a long moment, enough so that Donovan grew concerned as he turned to look at her. Finally she spoke. "I have heard of an artifact, a thing that could raise and command the dead." She looked up at Donovan and gave him a wan smile. "A crystal skull. I did try to pay attention to Dungeonmaster when he was teaching, after all."

Donovan smiled at that. "You always tried hard, Madelaine, to impress him. To impress the rest of us. You never needed to. You always impressed me."

The healer did not answer, but her breath caught short with a gasp of pain.

Donovan turn toward her in alarm. "Madelaine. . . you. . . "

She lifted her hand to silence him, saying nothing.

"Tell me," the wary ranger insisted.

Madelaine sighed. She let the blanket over her shoulders drop, revealing her unbuttoned blouse. Donovan reached forward, and, like a cautious lover, gently pushed the shirt aside to reveal the black and red mottled smear that was the healer's crushed torso. His eyes widened with horror.

Madelaine tenderly cupped his rough hand in both of hers. "One had a mace. My old friend. . . Donovan. . . there is nothing that can be done."

The ranger jerked his hand away. "There must be some magic. . . something I can do."

She let the blanket fall to hide her disfigured side, then reached up to lay her other hand against Donovan's bearded cheek. "There is nothing. It is beyond my skills for healing, my poor Woodsman. Or yours. I would know. Some things simply. . . take more time than others." Again she gave her sad smile, the one that did not reach her eyes. "I wouldn't mind a cup of tea. . . and a little company. For a while."

A tear trickled down Donovan's cheek, coming to rest against the curve of the healer's palm. "I just said you need not try to impress me, Madelaine."

Madelaine let her hand fall. "We can remember those days. The days when I was so sure that if I just convinced him we were doing our best, it would be enough. He'd let us go back home again."

The kettle began to steam. Donovan turned away and found a cup that was still unbroken, and scooped some tea into it. "Was that what you and Randale fought about? Before Simon's death?" Perhaps the long years of watching the eternal cycles of nature had made their mark on him. He could say the name without his voice catching in his throat. Perhaps the bitter pain that was clawing at his heart now would similarly find ease. With time.

Madelaine allowed her eyes to drift shut. "I. . . need to tell you about the skull. Remember when we had to return the artifacts to the Dragon's Graveyard, to keep them out of Venger's hands?"

Donovan nodded, pouring the hot water over the tea leaves.

"Once we'd gotten to the Hall of the Ancients, after Dungeonmaster arrived and told us which artifacts to take, I saw him pick up another artifact. . . a crystal skull. I asked him if he wanted us to take that too." Her voice was beginning to grow softer. "He said that it was far too dangerous a thing to leave in the Dragon's Graveyard. That a soul within would command the soulless, that the undying would reign over the undead to the despair of the Realm." Madelaine shook her head. "More riddles. But since he took it away, I did not worry about it anymore."

Donovan knelt at the woman's side again, setting the cup of tea into her hands, and steadying her so she could drink. "Maybe you should lie down. I can set up the bed."

Madelaine carefully raised the tea to her lips. "Oh, my dearest friend. You still don't understand. You must take word of the skull to my duckling Presto, and to Hank, and Melchior in Coulone. They've fought Venger before, poor things, and they may have to again if there is no one else. I," she paused, her voice filled with regret. "I cannot go on this adventure to impress you again, Donovan. I'm too badly hurt. Let me go. "

Fresh tears trickled down the haggard Ranger's cheeks, but he did not reply. There was nothing to be said. He sat quietly with her as she remembered all she knew of the crystal skull. They spoke quietly of six children from another world, brought to the Realm by Dungeonmaster, fighting for a way home until one died and they realized that there was no way to return to the childhood they had once known. They whispered their hopes for their students and for the world to come. Without words, they let the unspoken love of decades pass between them one last time.

...

The first hues of an orange sunset were just beginning to color the sky as Donovan walked away from the burning cottage, another column of smoke and the perfume of roses reaching up to heaven behind him.

* * *

It was a bad habit, she knew, to go running alone late at night. But the apartment was so quiet and empty, so lonely without her boy. The silence that had followed Chris's death had been held at bay by Hank. But now she had to face the silence without him. Sometimes she called Steven Montgomery, who seemed to understand the danger. But other nights, like this one, she ran.

The streetlights reflected off the glossy, dark roadway, still wet from the recent rain. Occasionally, the brilliant flash and roar of a car would rush past her, but none stopped. The raw-boned blonde woman glanced up at the tall wire fence to her left, letting her feet splash against the wet sidewalk. In the darkness beyond, strange warped shapes loomed like grinning monsters and flying beasts. The amusement park. Her midnight runs always lead her here in the end.

The park after dark seemed much the same as it had been the last four times she'd run past. The fence was the same, scattered with stern warnings about Private Property. Broken bottles and cigarette butts still littered the grassy bank. However, the woman's running footsteps slowed as she realized there was a change, at least on this rainy night. A gate in the fence, partially concealed by a weathered juniper, normally was locked with a heavy padlock. Tonight it stood partially ajar.

Unable to resist the urge to look closer, Amanda staggered to a halt. She glanced up and down the street, but for the moment, the roads were silent. With only a moment of hesitation, she climbed the bank, slid behind the bushes, and pushed the gate open with a creak. The park beyond was dark and silent. She slipped inside to look once more for the answers she had been unable to find for eight years.

'_I shouldn't be here.'_ Vague guilt washed over her, but the thin blonde woman had grown so used to the feeling that it settled like fine sediment over the layers already blanketing her spirit. The empty amusement park, with its dragon's eyes and coiling roller coasters, did not respond. She pushed the gate open with a creak and stepped through.

Amanda Grayson could not remember a time when she did not feel guilty. She and Chris Grayson were high school sweethearts when she had Hank, and with his birth, they lost everything. Their parents' respect. Their college aspirations. Their popularity and their childhood. Everything but each other. Then there was the rainy night, the road not far from here, the accident. The despair twisted in her heart again, and she shoved them aside as she walked away from the gate. The park was dark. This long after midnight, the gaudy neon that lit the park at twilight had given way to faint shapes in the moonlight. The smell of stale popcorn hung in the air.

More than anyone, she knew the park by heart. The sweethearts had once been king and queen of the midway, when the Beatles ruled the airwaves. Then came Hank, and the struggle to raise him as best they could, bringing him here to feed the ducks on the wide pond. After Chris's death, she watched him grow to become everything she'd wanted to be; handsome like his father, the smart, responsible boy who took care of his friends. Who took care of her, as she let herself fade into the twilight of her grief and loss. She'd haunted the amusement park all her life. For the last eight years, it had haunted her back.

There were no guards. That was unusual, from what she had seen from outside. Still, Amanda kept to the shadows, ready to slip into the carefully-pruned shrubberies if need arose. She approached the side of the leering maw of the Dungeons and Dragons ride.

"What is that?" she gasped aloud as she turned the corner to stand by the entrance. From just inside the dragon's mouth, Amanda could discern the outline of a doorway, shedding light into the darkness. It was a doorway she had never seen before, despite the painful hours standing in this very spot while the park was open. After a furtive glance around, she slipped between the dragon's teeth and approached the door.

The door itself was red and textured to blend with the wall on either side. Beyond it, a steel ladder affixed to the wall led down into the light below. Amanda listened, but could hear no sound other than a quiet hum.

She slipped in the doorway, and tested the ladder. It held true. '_Well, if they catch me, I'm just one of those crazy distraught parents,'_ she thought, climbing down the steps. '_They must be used to us by now.'_ The ladder led to a tunnel with metal-lined walls. Small, round lights protected by metal cages illuminated the corridor in either direction, though she could see that the passage towards her left ended abruptly in a solid wall. She crept to the right, trying to hide as best she could in the feeble shadows.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy, round steel door with a complex-looking lock on the front stood ajar. There was still no sound coming from within, so, taking a deep breath, Amanda Grayson slipped inside.

'_I think I've seen this movie,'_ she thought. '_Das Boot?'_ The circular walls were metal bulkheads, painted a dreary military blue-gray, in front of which were stations and a number of chairs anchored firmly to the floor. Dials and cranks ran what seemed like some sort of primitive computer system, though what it did, she couldn't begin to tell. A clunky headset rested in front of some sort of radar station with switches marked 'Transmitting' 'Receiving' and 'Transferring'. Glass and steel columns marked the four corners of the room, and faint, red lightning seemed to ripple up through the columns. In the center of the room, a circular-rail shielded a round, black sheet of opaque glass. Large stenciled labels marked the walls. **WARNING: RADIATION DANGER. AUTHORIZED PERSONELLE** **ONLY. U.S. GOVT. DYMOCORP. **Everything was covered with a fine layer of dust.

Three file cabinets, stuffed to overflowing with documents and records, seemed to promise answers. However, as she stepped past one of the tall columns to reach them, a loud siren blared. Amanda gasped and jumped. A red light began to flash and the klaxon warning wailed. Panicked, the woman grabbed the stack of documents that sat on top of the nearest file cabinet and dashed for the doorway.

The sound of sirens followed her as she raced up the ladder and fled the Dungeons and Dragons ride. She didn't know what would come. . . men in black suits and sunglasses. Marines with machine guns. Or something worse. She did not wait to find out. Clutching the stolen papers to her chest, she raced towards the open amusement park gate, broke out, shut the gate behind her, and raced home as fast as she was able.

* * *

The Queen lowered her heads in mourning as she felt the last of her children die. "There is always death at the end of an age," one sibilant voice hissed.

Another responded, offering comfort, "Very soon now, there will be new birth."

A third answered, "It is the way of nature."

She cast her gaze out to watch the last gasps of her two remaining children: a mighty green dragon, ancient as the black-hearted forest in which it dwelled, and a strong young silver dragon, the end of the fifth generation, torn down from the sky by a flock of roc driven to frenzy.

But her voices changed to a scream of pain and helpless rage as she watched their broken, battered bodies rise again. Gaping wounds draining of blood, they turned away from her and disappeared from her view forever.

* * *

"So, what does this one do?" The raven-haired girl's voice was as warm as the desert sunshine, and bright as the sparkle on the waters of a desert oasis. She held up a small silver berry on a twig of dark leaves.

"Ah, Princess Aiyesha. A rare plant indeed. Among the rarest. That is the fruit of the Maid-of-Tusinda blossom. If you consume it, you will be granted a vision of your best friend's true love." The old gardener, wrinkled and so thin that every rib was visible, smiled a gap-tooth smile at the two girls.

The other girl, a stark opposite with pale skin and hair like flame, glanced over from the large plant she had been examining. "Why your best friend's? Why not your own?"

The gardener threw up his hands. "Who am I, a poor gardener, to know such things? Perhaps it is because the knowing would make true love not come. Were you to know that a handsome, strong warrior with hair like the golden sands of Agrippa and eyes like the summer sky were waiting for you, you might turn aside from your destiny and then it should never come to pass!"

The pale rose turned deep pink. "How did you. . . ?"

The dark bloom giggled out loud at the expression on the other's face and came over to embrace her. "I'm sure it's only hypothetical, my sister."

Sheila laughed and playfully pushed Aiyesha away. "You told him. I know it!" she exclaimed with mock anger.

The King watched them from the shade of the veranda and rejoiced deep in his heart to hear the sound of their laughter. The last two years had been difficult. When Sheila came to him, her soul was so wounded that it took much patience and much understanding to help her come to realize that neither she nor her friends were to blame for her brother's death. Though she'd known it in her head, Ramoud knew, better than anyone, how long it took for the heart to believe.

Still, she had come to blossom like the healing herbs of the palace gardens, and it brought the king great joy in a time of growing despair.

"I know what that one is. It's the foot of a yellow dragon, isn't it?"

The wizened gardener, maintaining his posture of complete sincerity and innocence, nodded. "The Princess Sheila is as wise as she is beautiful. The yellow dragon will cure any poison, just as this, the tongue of the purple dragon, will cure any disease." He led the girls to a large, ugly flower, purple with blue spots, from which protruded the long, orange tongue.

Ramoud could see Sheila pause, as if recollecting something long past. "Any disease? Does it cure witchfever? Can it be found in the lands to the west?"

The gardener looked confused, glancing from Sheila to Aiyesha. "It can be found in special places to the west, of course, and it does cure any disease. But witchfever is not a disease. . . ." He trailed off.

Ramoud knew immediately, from long observation, the turmoil expressed in Sheila's face at the gardener's answer. He threw down the latest reports from the oases and strode out into the garden, allowing his booming laughter to fill the uncomfortable silence that had momentarily arisen.

"So, my children! You have spent all morning speaking of flowers, and have none to show me? Come. I must see what is most beautiful in the garden today, other than these two lovely blossoms I see before me!"

Sheila looked up at him with jade green eyes moist with concern, but he shook his head back at her. She nodded. If ever there was a man she could trust with the painful questions of the heart, it was this one. He would answer her questions very soon, at least those she did not have to answer for herself.

* * *

The night's silence was shattered by the ringing of the alarm bell just as the door was shattered by the rusted axe of its skeletal attacker. Eric leapt to his feet, grabbing his shield just in time to catch the blow that was about to cleave his head in two.

"Ack!" he yelled, twisting away from the blade and flailing with his right hand to grasp his sword. Despite nearly seven years in the Realm, his panic hadn't changed much. At least when being surprised by undead in the middle of the night.

"Eric! NOW!" Diana flipped up to her feet in a single, graceful bound, her spear instantly in her hand. She thrust it forward and to the side, where it caught the inner edge of the creature's skull and was shoved forcibly out of the doorway. Eric didn't hesitate. His hands grasping the hilt of his sword, he jumped through the shattered ruin of the doorway and was free of the confining hut. He swung his sword around, knocking the skeleton free of Diana's spear and allowing the Acrobat to get out of the cottage too.

The village was in chaos. The Red Blades had been settled there for three days, and the villagers welcomed their protection and coin. But now, soldiers and villagers were emerging from the buildings, still groggy from sleep, to find themselves under attack. The dead had clawed their way up from the nearby graveyard and had arrived to add the locals to their numbers. Throughout the town square, moaning skeletons hacked at doorways and clawed at window frames, pursuing every living being with unexpected speed and agility. Most were armed with weapons of the fallen or farm implements. Some people were wounded and screaming with pain. Others lay on the ground, still, for the moment.

"Soldiers, FORM UP!" Eric bellowed over the clash of weapons. "Get the villagers to the center of town! Block the roads! Use blunt weapons or the flat of your blades!" His voice cut through the confusion, and the Red Blades responded. They paired up, picking up weapons and backing through the streets shielding the villagers as they fought their way towards the center of town.

Eric smashed the skeleton for good with his shield, grunting with the effort. Near him, Diana had used her spear to club another to pieces, offering the pair a second of respite. She gave him a reassuring smile to let him know she was all right, and then her eyes drifted down his chest, past his waist. She looked up with a wicked grin. Before he could ask, however, she used the spear's shaft to vault back into the fray.

Confused, Eric looked down, and a crimson blush sped across his cheeks. "Oh no! Pants! Where are my pants?" He turned back towards the cottage from which they'd come, but he was separated from it by more attackers every minute. He ducked the blow of a heavy hoe that was about to dig a furrow in his forehead and was forced back into the fight, swearing profusely as he did so.

Skeletal fighters did not seem willing to let him linger on his pants problem. The Red Blades managed to clear the houses on the edge of town, helping the villagers escape towards the square. Eric finally reached the square just as two men were rolling a cart across the street to channel the skeletons more tightly. A bonfire of bedding and broken timbers from nearby houses flamed to life, providing enough light to fight by. Barrels and benches were added to the cart, erecting a hasty barricade, while the armed mercenaries clashed with the undead above and beside the barricades, keeping them from coming any closer. The alarm bell finally fell silent. The village was ready to make it stand.

The Cavalier scanned the crowd in the square. The women and children huddled in the center, and the Blades guarded every road. However, his heart made a sudden leap for his throat when he realized that Diana was not in the circle of firelight. He knew she was a capable warrior; in truth, she had become the finest combatant he had ever met. She'd fought on her own in worse predicaments many times before. But things had changed between them. He had never felt this frightened by her absence before. He'd let Bobby down, and they'd lost each other. His thoughts were rushing faster and faster, a rising tide of fear. He'd found Diana again. They were building a life together. He could not lose her again. '_Not now. . . .'_

A brown blur soared over the barrier like an eagle, landing with a solid thump behind Eric. A warm cinnamon-and-smoke voice said, "Hey, Commander!" He turned, joy already pushing the panic away. Something soft flew through the air and hit him in the chest. He fumbled, but managed to catch the bundle. "You might want those if we're going to fight undead today."

Eric hastily pulled on his pants, to the nervous laughter of the men nearby. Once they were on, he straightened, and redrew his sword. "Have a good laugh now, boys! It's a long time until morning!" With that, he attacked the undead outside the barricade, Diana at his side.

* * *

"Here it is again. Transatlantic Tunnel. I believe that is the project name." The stern, dark-eyed gentleman looked up from another of the large stack of papers that lay on the heavy mahogany desk.

Amanda Grayson rubbed her eyes with her wrists. She was dressed in an old track suit; her worn raincoat was hung over the high back chair behind her. The office was dark, lit by a single desk lamp which left the corners in shadows. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, shutting out the light of the early morning. "Who's running it, Steven?"

Steven Montgomery, despite the hour, was wearing a fine, if slightly rumpled, French-cuff shirt and tailored suit. He picked up a piece of graying carbon-leaf paper. "It says here the corporation is Dymocorp, with contract to the US Government. I'm familiar with the company. Its stocks have seen extraordinary growth with the recent crisis in the Middle East. Their government projects are primarily Department of Defense, but they are an umbrella corporation with major interests in resource development and transportation."

"Resource development?" Amanda picked up another of the documents, something that looked like a general health report for some man named 'Josef Mueller'. The man looked like he would be healthy as far as she could tell, or used to be in 1949.

"Oil, gas, and mineral exploration and extraction in the third world. They don't do much work in the United States. Too many environmental regulations." Steven stood, spreading his hands across the desk. "That is the puzzling part. These documents are all dated after the end of World War Two. The United States had finished developing the fission bomb, and work on the hydrogen bomb was almost complete. The Soviets had not developed similar technology yet."

Amanda nodded. "So, there wouldn't be much use for another big weapon system. And even if there were, why build it here instead of some island in the South Pacific or something?"

Steven leaned forward against the desk, sighing wearily. "Exactly. And what does this have to do with our children? And who can we speak to about this?"

"Do you think we should tell Detective Pendleton? Or do you think he'll think we're crazy?" The slim woman glanced over at the curtains nervously. "I don't want to get in trouble. And all of these forms say 'Top Secret'. I'm kind of frightened someone might come. . . ."

"We do not know if anyone heard you. You should be fine. I will have my chauffer drive you back home in a few minutes. If you like, you can keep him there for the day, just in case you have any problems. He can. . . resolve. . . most difficulties." He sat back down again. "As to the rest. I think maybe I should call the O'Brien's. If we explain the situation to Margaret, I know she can convince Pendleton to re-examine the doorway you found. Pendleton can bring the police in or not after that, and keep you out of it completely."

"Th. . . thanks, Steven." A wan smiled curved her lips. "I'd feel safer with someone there." After a moment, she added, "I think we should tell the others. No matter what Pendleton discovers."

"I prefer not to cause them undue concern," the businessman stated flatly.

Amanda got to her feet, picking up her coat. "I know you're just trying to protect me. Protect all of us. But wouldn't you have wanted to be told? If only to see if there was something you could do to help?"

Steven Montgomery sighed. "Very well." He paused. "I hadn't said, before. Thank you for coming to me with this. If you hadn't. . . ." He trailed off.

The slender woman leaned forward to give Steven a quick peck on the cheek. "Until we see our kids again, we just have to take care of each other. Thank you."

He watched her leave the dim office, and began making phone calls. . . to the chauffer, to the O'Brien's, and to his executive assistant to cancel all morning meetings. It had been a long night.

* * *

Nights in the deserts of Kadish could be cold. But King Ramoud's study remained warm. A coal fire burned in an open iron firebowl, and cushions were scattered among the carved racks of scrolls and maps. Ramoud waited patiently. A few brittle scrolls were laid out in front of him. He was examining an illuminated letter E on one of them when he heard a soft voice behind him.

"Ramoud?"

The king looked up and smiled. "I will convince you to call me Father one day. Perhaps the day I will be able to see you enter the room I am in. Please, sit, my Daughter Sheila."

The red-haired thief stepped out of the shadows and sank into a cushion. Her time in the desert had tanned her fair skin and brought out her freckles stronger than before. She did not fidget, but there was a thoughtful, guarded, concern in her expression. It was a far cry from the indifferent hardness he saw when she first came to the palace. It was also very different than the open innocence she had when he first gave her his daughter's doll. Ramoud sighed softly. He felt old.

"I came to ask about witchfever. What is it, Ramoud? Aiyesha wouldn't tell me."

Ramoud spread his hands over the scrolls in front of him. "I found these. They are the best explanations that I can give you. I am not a magician. If you read, you will find that it is. . . a special kind of sickness. . . that those gifted with the ability to work magic suffer. Now, please, tell me why this troubles you, my child."

Sheila hung her head. "A couple of months after. . . we split up. . . I was with Randale, and we were camping. We saw this light. And it was Presto. Or maybe not. He was transparent, like a ghost. He said. . . some things. About how he knew that Dungeonmaster had trapped us here. I said some stuff I probably shouldn't have. I was angry. Randale said the word 'Witch Fever', and that Dungeonmaster would take care of it."

"I see." Ramoud's voice was gentle and understanding, but sad. "Have you seen young Presto since?"

"No."

"And you want to make sure that he really is well?"

"Yes."

Ramoud sighed again, audibly this time. "I. . . did not know. I was certain he was too old." He opened one of the scrolls. "Witch fever has usually passed a child by by the age of ten or eleven. It happens to all children with the gift of magic. They grow gravely ill for some time. Weeks or months. During the that time, certain. . . magical occurrences happen around them, or to those they love, similar to what you describe. They are delirious, as with a high fever, and from that it gets its name."

Sheila looked down at the document herself. "How. . . Presto, I mean. . . he'd be okay, wouldn't he?"

Ramoud reached forward to tilt her head up and look the young woman steadily in the eye. "I will not lie to you. Very few who have witch fever live to see their twelfth year. There is no cure."

A tear welled up in the corner of Sheila's eye. Ramoud wiped it away with his thumb as it began to trickle down her cheek. "No tears, my daughter. Randale could have been mistaken; he was in many ways. Some do survive the witch fever. And your friend, son to me, was older, and stronger, much stronger than even he realized."

Sheila sucked in a breath and nodded. "I hope you're right. He apprenticed to a healer too. Even if Dungeonmaster did not help him, his teacher could have." She pulled back, away from his hand, and straightened. "I need to find out for certain, though. I need to go back."

Silence fell between them. A spark leapt from the bed of coals, and outside the room, a guard's weapon belt jingled as he walked past.

Eventually, Ramoud answered. The words were difficult for him to say, but he gave them the sound of trust and confidence. "I think, my daughter, that you are right. I do not want you to leave, but it has been nearly six years since you have seen the rest of your brothers and sisters. I am certain they are worried for you, as you are worried for them."

Sheila looked relieved. She started to get to her feet, but Ramoud reached out a hand to stop her.

"I will send you with an armed caravan." He reached to the side of his cushion and picked up a piece of paper. "With you, also, I must entrust this message. For Dungeonmaster, if possible, but for the rulers of the kingdoms to the west if not. And, of course, your brothers and sisters, the Young Ones. This plague of undead grows every day. People flee to the cities to escape them. I fear the undead will form an army, but we cannot fight an army of the dead forever. Not one that grows each day. I must know what causes this phenomenon. And what I must do to stop it."

Sheila accepted the folded letter from Ramoud. "I'll find out for you. We will stop this."

The king stood, and helped the thief to her feet. "I want you to know. I am so very proud of you." He wrapped the girl tightly in his arms in a warm bear-hug.

She embraced him tightly back. Sheila whispered a heartfelt, "Thank you."


	14. Worth an Answer

**Chapter 14: Worth an Answer**

"John. . . It's for you. It's Margaret O'Brien again." The other homicide detective passed him the phone, her dark-brown eyes twinkling with amusement. "She says she had a dream."

"Oh, God. Not again." Pendleton took the phone reluctantly. Amusement parks. Weird sightings. Fantastic stories. And busy-body parents who don't know when to step out of the way. This case was making a mockery of him. If he didn't want so badly to see those young people healthy and whole again. . . . "Good morning, Mrs. O'Brien. You wanted to speak with me?"

He listened for a few moments. "No, Mrs. O'Brien. I really don't think that's necessary. We've been over that site many times, as well you know."

"Lights? Last night on the ride? Again?" Pendleton sighed. "If you're certain, and if it would make you feel better. I can swing by at noon. I'll meet you for lunch."

He hung up the phone, and shook his head. The other detective laughed aloud at his expression, eliciting a sneer of disgust from the more experienced detective.

"What?" he asked with annoyance. "They have good hot dogs at the amusement park."

* * *

A light rain drizzled down, keeping the crowds at the park to a minimum, especially since it was a week day and school was in session. Margaret O'Brien held a floral umbrella to keep the rain off her red hair and her gray trench coat protected her clothes. She glanced over at Detective Pendleton, over by the hot dog stand loading up a Park Special, and decided that she wasn't going to feel too badly about dragging the man out in the rain. He tried hard, she knew, but he could be a bit of a jerk at times.

Above her, the Dungeons and Dragons ride loomed like a great, hulking beast. Which, of course, it was. The dragon's maw glistened wetly in the damp, giving it an even more life-like cast. The ride was not running for the moment; it too was shut down while its operator was on his lunch break. A lunch break soon to be shared with Detective Pendleton, no doubt, but it gave her the opportunity to look for the doorway Amanda Grayson had described.

Steven Montgomery had been very, very clear in his description of what to look for. Margaret stepped past the chain that blocked the entrance to the ride, and right down into the dragon's mouth.

There was no door.

She ran her hands over the surface of the inside cheek of the dragon, feeling for any crack or indentation that might hint at a concealed panel. She could find nothing. The plastic panel ran back into the ride over thirty feet, well beyond what Steven had described. But it was still smooth and seamless.

Margaret moved to the other side, and ran her hands over the other panel, just in case Steven had been mistaken. But that side was also without a mark. She returned to the first side, tracing her hands along the panel until it was enveloped in the darkness of the ride. No doorway. She crouched next to the seam she did find, where the plastic panel fitted into the next on the ride. The light was dim, filtering in from the outside, but she could make out lines of scratches and wear on the next panel, scratches that terminated against the panel she was touching. '_Odd,'_ she thought. '_Shouldn't the two panels wear out together?' _The panels both looked about the same age, but the scuff marks between the two seemed not to meet perfectly.

She made her way to the entrance of the ride and peeked out at Pendleton. The detective was sitting down at a covered picnic table and speaking with the ride attendant. Margaret bit her lip. She knew something was different about this portion of the ride, but had absolutely no reasonable way to explain the difference to Pendleton, or anyone else, especially without explaining what Amanda Grayson had been doing here last night.

It wasn't that Pendleton was unfamiliar with her illogical claims. Ever since Bobby and Sheila disappeared, sometimes, rarely, she would have strange, vivid dreams that somehow her children were back in the amusement park. How they got there, she couldn't tell, but the dreams were so real, she let slip about them to Pendleton in one of many rounds of questioning. He dismissed the claims as a natural byproduct of an anxious mother. However, one night, she had a terrible nightmare. . . a dream where Sheila and Bobby and the other children were in the amusement park at night, pursued by a terrible winged demon on a flying black stallion with fiery eyes. She dreamt that they had run from him, and went back onto the Dungeons and Dragons ride, the winged figure close behind.

That dream had been so real to her, and so terrifying, she called Pendleton herself and begged him to go back to the amusement park to look for clues with her. The amusement park seemed to have suffered some wind damage, but the forecasters just spoke of micro-tornadoes and the storm front. There was no sign of the children. She had had no dreams since Bobby's return, and that troubled her. Still, when Steven had explained what Amanda had seen, Margaret knew why they contacted her. It protected Amanda from whoever owned that doorway. Now, however, there was no doorway at all. She decided she could not afford to tell Pendleton anything more, for Amanda's sake. But that didn't mean she would stop looking.

She took one last look at the dragon's cheek. A tiny piece of white she had not noticed before peaked out from under the bottom of the panel. She knelt down to look closer. It seemed like a piece of paper or gum wrapper wedged into the panel against the wall. She pulled a pair of eyebrow tweezers out of her purse and used them to tug the paper free.

Held tightly in the grip of the tweezers, she held a scrap of wet, white paper. The ink was beginning to run, but she could still make out a sequence of individual numbers separated by periods. She slipped the fragment into her purse.

Maybe it was a clue, after all this time?

Pendleton finished with his hot dog and was looking for her. She took a deep breath and strode out to meet him.

* * *

The huge beasts were placid black silhouettes against the pink dawn, waiting patiently as their handlers ran around them, loading their packs for the journey ahead. Sheila could hear their bass rumbling from here, underpinning the shouts, songs, and prayers of an embarking merchant caravan.

Much of the palace had come out to see her off, and she was unused to such attention, made doubly uncomfortable at being the center of the hubbub. Many had come to wish her well on her journey as a daughter of Ramoud, offering small gifts of sweetmeats and prayer-scrolls for the road. Some earnestly exhorted her to seek out The Dungeon Master and find an end to the curse of the undead quickly, especially those with family outside the city walls. But some, especially Ramoud's highest ministers, stood in the shadow of the palace and stared at her coldly as she prepared to depart. She could feel the weight of their scorn.

Whether they resented her or resented what Ramoud had done for her, it had been the same since she entered the King's palace. Ramoud did not protect her from them. Instead, he taught her there was no shame in being thought of as unworthy by those of little credit themselves. In the last three years, she had learned much of the arts of diplomacy and statesmanship at Ramoud's side. The memory of his advice strengthened her enough to turn and face the King with a smile when he came striding out to meet her.

"So, my daughter Sheila! Is the caravan ready? Do you have everything you need? Do you miss us yet?" His booming voice cut over the caravan's din. There was laughter in his eyes.

Sheila blushed. "Yes I miss you already. Everything looks like it's all set to go. But this is so much more than I need!"

Ramoud surveyed the caravan with a critical eye. "I do not think so." He clapped his hands over his head three times. A unit of twelve soldiers march towards them. They wore black turbans through which the sharp point of an armored helmet could be seen, and around their waists, like a wide belt, was an etched cuirass of heavy bronze. Each carried weapons: scimitars, long knives, morning stars or heavy flails. The man who led them also carried, coiled like a black snake at his waist, a long whip. Ramoud gestured to them. "These men have volunteered to travel with you, to protect you and to help you. The way may be dangerous. There are the undead and bandits. Rumors even tell of a creature called the Basilisk that has burned the eyes from whole armies to the north. I would go with you if I could, but I am needed by my people now more than ever."

The soldier with the whip stepped forward and knelt on bended knee before Sheila. His dark, weather-beaten face seemed familiar to her, but she could not recognize him. "I am Akbah, Princess Sheila, commander of these men. I hope you find my company more pleasing now than it was last time we spoke."

The memory of the guard who had chained her to the whipping post flashed into her memory, and she turned quickly away from him. He stood. "Do not be afraid. I understand why all was done as it was done. I treasure what my King has treasured, and seek only to keep it safe. You have my word and my life."

Sheila swallowed and turned to face Akbah again. She nodded. "Thank you."

Akbah bowed to her and stepped away to command his men to take their positions in the Caravan. Ramoud stepped forward to wrap Sheila in his warm embrace a final time.

"Be careful, my daughter. Please take my love and my heart's warmest wishes to the others. And know that you are never, ever alone in this world. Our prayers will be with you, and you will always have a home here, with us. Always."

Ramoud hugged her tight and Sheila pressed her head against his chest, letting the fragrance of myrrh surround her. Although tears still sprang to her eyes when she remembered the strong arms and pine-scent of her father, she knew she had another father here. She didn't trust herself to speak; her voice caught in her throat. She nodded instead, and Ramoud released her.

Aiyesha stepped forward and threw her arms around her in a hug. "Goodbye, Sheila! We will see each other again soon, I know it!" Her voice was exuberant, her smile radiant.

Sheila nodded again, a smile forming in spite of itself. "I will return when I can," she answered.

Aiyesha let her go. "Then you may tell me of your golden haired warrior and how he has languished over you these many long years," she said with a laugh. "Speaking of which, I have brought you a gift." She held out a pouch.

Sheila accepted and opened it. Inside the pouch were two crystal vials. The larger vial was a pale blue color, glowing slightly in the shadow of the bag. The other was shimmered faintly silver. Sheila looked up quizzically. "What are these?"

Aiyesha smiled. "One is a potion fermented from the tongue of the purple dragon." Sheila had to suppress her smirk at the name, but Aiyesha continued, "As you know, it will cure any disease. If Presto or another is ill with a disease that it can cure, you have it."

Sheila nodded.

"The other. . . is from the fruit of the Maid-of-Tusinda blossom." Aiyesha giggled. "Remember that when the one you love has become your friend!"

Sheila blushed again, as scarlet as her hair. It was with as much laughter as tears that she mounted the great Mamut and began the long journey to the West.

"Ku-trrrrrrrassh!"

* * *

Unearthly moans grew louder and louder through the forest twilight, louder than the oxen's frustrated struggles and the terrified weeping of the two children in the mired ox cart. Two torches held aloft lit a pool of flickering light around a man and woman. They shouted brave reassurances to their children, and waved the torches fiercely at the source of the moans, but the voices were getting closer. There would be no escape this night.

The first shambling form broke free of the treeline. It wore filthy tatters of clothing, rotten and crawling with insects. White maggots writhed in open sores across its pallid grey flesh in its face and shoulders, but the flesh hung off the bone, exposing the brown-white radius and ulna. Skeletal hands, marred by scraps of clinging skin, reached towards the frightened family.

The farmer thrust his torch in the creature's face, causing it to rear away. But it would not stop. Three more forms, similar in their state of decay though different in build and dress, emerged from the woodlands.

The farmer's wife swung her torch at the undead, but tears sprang into her eyes at the hopelessness of their situation. Her voice was a strangled sob as she pleaded, "What do you want? Why are you doing this?"

In a voice as hollow as an empty grave, the first of the undead answered, gazing at the farmer before it with hollow eyes. "We obey the soulsong. Obey the master." With an arm powered with hellish strength, it ripped the farmer's torch away and cast it aside. With its other arm, it reached for the man's throat.

Suddenly, an arrow exploded through its chest with enough force to send it staggering forward. The arrow tip burned with a brilliant white fire that set clothing and dead flesh ablaze with equal ease. The farmer jerked out of the way quickly before it could catch him, and it stumbled blindly as it became a ball of flame illuminating the clearing.

Three more arrows arced through the darkness, each lodging firmly in the bodies of the undead. The couple together knocked one away before it could come near the cart, and, with a few more arrows, the other beings met the same fate as the first. The sounds of moaning in the darkness rose into unearthly shrieks of pain for a moment. Then they were gone.

The farming family embraced, even the infant in his sister's arms growing still at the relief and comfort of his parents' touch. The farmer then turned away to scan the woods for their savior.

After a few moments, he appeared. A tall young man clad in leather armor, his face illuminated by the flickering arrow that he held primed in his longbow. He had hair of golden yellow and quiet blue eyes, like a man who had seen much of the world and was coming to accept it.

"Hello," he asked. "Are you all right? I think I got the last of them."

The farmer found his voice again. "Aye. Though the ox is mired. We were hopin' to make Ranstead before nightfall, but. . . "

The young man nodded and released the tension on his arrow. He drew it back, and then pressed the arrowhead into the earth, extinguishing its flames. He slid it back into his quiver, and strung his bow over his shoulder. "Gotcha. Let me talk to her."

The farmer drew back from his struggling ox's head and allowed the young bowman to approach. Their rescuer slowly approached the animal, speaking soothing nothings in a soft voice. He laid his hands on the ox's head and scratched her behind the ears. The beast's snorting and grunting stilled, and her breathing eased as she calmed.

"All right, big girl. One more pull to get these folks out of here. I'll help." He nodded at the farmer, and the family members all took places to help push the cart out of the muddy rut. "One. . . two. . . three."

With a great heave, the ox threw herself into her yoke while the others pushed and pulled at the cart. The cart strained and then broke free of the mud, landing up on the road again. The ox gave a smug-sounding snort, and the bowman scratched her nose again.

"We can't thank you enough, stranger," the farmer said, extending his hand to the young man. "Travel with us to Ranstead. My brother has a bakery there. It'd be our honor to have you stay with us as long as you like."

The young man gave a rather amused smirk and shook the farmer's hand. "I'd be glad too. But I'm looking for something, and I haven't found it."

The farmer nodded, and climbed into the seat of the wagon next to his wife and son, while his daughter peered shyly at the handsome stranger from the back. "What are you looking for?"

The bowman waved. "I don't know yet. That's what I've got to find out"

The young man stayed in the clearing and watched the farming family recede down the track into the darkness. Then he looked down at the charred corpse that lay, blessedly still, on the forest road. "So. . . " the bowman said to the nightcrickets as they began their song anew. "What were YOU seeking in these woods tonight? And who is your master?"

* * *

"AH. . . Fiddle faddle. Come here this instant and extinguish the fire, you kettle-headed son of a wash basin!"

Presto blinked and looked around quickly for some water to put out the old man's smoldering purple robes.

The wizard scoffed and made a shoo-ing motion with his hands. "Not you, boy. Him!"

He pointed to Presto's left. A lumbering scarecrow of wood and rope ambled towards the smoking magician. It reached up with long arms and popped off its own head, a large, intricately-etched silver teakettle. It tipped the head up and a stream of water poured from the kettle's spout, drenching the flames. The scarecrow then lifted the kettle back into place and screwed it down upon its own 'neck' again.

"Oh, right. I'm sorry, Master Melchior."

Melchior finished beating the last of the scorch marks and straightened. He was bald save for a thin fringe of gray-brown hairs that clung to the edge of his scalp with extreme tenacity, and a scraggly beard that clung to his face despite the odds against it. His face itself was thin and ascetic, contrasting with the fine lavender and silver robes draping his emaciated form. He did not smile, but a certain wry amusement seemed to glimmer in his gray eyes.

"Such are simply the consequences of playing with fire. Or, should I say, standing too near someone else who is playing with fire. An impressive display in size and heat, I would venture. At least for the first heartbeat or two."

Presto laughed a little in his old, self-deprecating style. "I tried. I just don't think I can do this."

Melchior started to dismiss his words with a 'Nonsense. . . .' But paused. After a moment of watching the young magician squirm, he said, "No. Maybe it is not." He snapped his fingers. A red velvet cushioned ottoman came trotting across the hall and stopped in a quiet spot near the door. Melchior stalked over and sat down on it, setting his staff at his side.

"I think you are ready for an exam. Do you?"

Presto shifted his feet uncomfortably. "I don't know. . . ."

"Perfect. Let us begin. Something elemental first. Make a floating ball of fire. Not too big, please."

Presto frowned, concentrating. The magic did not come quite as easily to him as it had in the days before the accident. Oh, the power was there, vast waves of it just waiting for him to scoop it up and use. But when he reached for the power, it dribbled through his fingers as through the holes of a sieve. Within a second or two, it was all drained away.

For that, he found himself grateful.

He scooped up the magic quickly and splashed it across the sky, where it spun out a gate to the source of the flames and drew out a fireball that hovered and glimmered in the air between himself and his mentor.

Melchior watched him carefully, head cocked to one side like some ancient stork. "Not bad. Larger than necessary, but you're not burning down the trees, so I suppose we should be grateful. Now show me a floating ball of water."

Presto stopped throwing out the magic to sustain the gate and the fireball was beginning to quickly fall apart when the wizard's voice brought him short. "Stop! I did not give you permission to dismiss the fireball."

Presto bit his lip and threw a bit more magic into the source so the flames wouldn't sputter out. He tried to imagine himself reaching with a different hand towards the place held the sphere of water just beyond his reach, but as soon as he began concentrating on the water, the fireball spell began to unravel. With a mental snatch he grasped at the magic with the intent of forming a sphere of water, hoping that acting quickly would help him to hold both simultaneously. Instead the fireball spun itself out of existence nearly instantaneously, and a quivering crystal ball of rainwater was pulled from beyond in its place. He glanced at the Melchior, who was frowning at him, and tried to recall the ball of flames. The lapse of concentration was enough. Water splashed to the ground, staining the bottom of Melchior's robes, and the fireball was long gone.

Melchior stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Interesting. Another test."

Presto's shoulders sagged. "Okay."

"I want you to travel from my Kettlehead," he pointed to the scarecrow on one side of the banquet hall, "to the top of the table." Melchior gestured to the largest of the hall's trestle tables. "Without walking. Some other way, please. That is something new, I believe."

Presto walked silently over to the wizard's automoton. "Now?" After receiving Melchior's nod, he made a casual gesture, and was instantaneously standing in the middle of the hall's central table. "Is that all? Or was I supposed to do something else?"

Melchior's face sharpened, if that were possible, and he scrutinized Presto with bright, intense eyes. "Where did you learn that? I never taught it to you."

Presto climbed down off the table, thinking hard. All he had done was step up to the pool of magic he felt there before him, and step through. He hadn't teleported before, but it seemed so easy and natural.

Melchior inquired again, "Pupil?"

'_Oh. Right. Dungeonmaster_.' "I saw The Dungeon Master do it that way. Often. And, with the hat. . . "

The old man nodded thoughtfully. "I expected you to levitate. Well, come here, boy. I have more questions. I should have done this test long ago."

Presto sat down on a wooden trestle next to the wizard. The kettle-headed scarecrow, at a gesture from its created, stalked up the stairs to the tower Melchior and Presto shared. Melchior hung on to his hat while the ottoman beneath him stretched and re-planted itself. In its own, primitive way, it knew they were in for a long afternoon.

Melchior pinned him on the first question. "Where do they come from?"

Presto blinked. "Where do what come from?"

The wizard chuffed impatiently. "The flames. The wind. The lights. Come now."

"Magic, I guess?"

"Don't be a fool. How do you draw them out? Do you drag them from your soul by the power of your will? Are they a well-crafted illusion you make real? Are they spirits you summon to your aid? Are you condensing it from the air? What is it? Speak up, boy."

Presto shook his head. "No. It's not any of those. There's a place that is all fire, only fire. I just poke a hole between here and there, and the fire comes out."

Melchior rocked back. "Hah! Fascinating! All this time, I had you as an invoker, and here you are a conjuror. A rare gift, that. I knew a wizard, Kelek, who went mad seeking the power of conjuration for himself. I wonder what became of him?"

Presto opened his mouth to answer when, suddenly, a metallic spider, remarkably similar to a walking silver doorknob, hurried across the feasthall floor and tugged at the hem of Melchior's robe. The magician bent to pick it up. He held it in his hand for a moment, scrutinizing its surface closely. He looked up with a worried expression.

Presto stood up quickly, catching his foot in the hem of his robe for a second before he could yank it free.

Melchior tucked the doorknob spider into a pocket of his robe and gestured at his clumsy student. "I. . . think we have less time than I thought. I have wronged you by not assessing your skill earlier, but it is now time for your final lesson. May the gods help us."

Presto followed the magus and felt afraid.

* * *

The platinum dragon looked down at her with violet eyes and a knowing smile.

The smile was reassuring, and she thought she would introduce herself. "Hello! I'm a princess. What's your name?"

The dragon's mouth did not move, but she heard a deep voice that seemed to fill the air around her.

"BAHAMUT".

She smiled and held up the stick, and the two white marshmallows it pierced, before the creature's huge head.

The dragon opened his mouth wide, his red tongue curling upwards, as if to unleash the fire which would burn her and her marshmallows to ash. But instead of flame, a loud ringing sound came from its lips. The sound drove away the dragons and she stirred, once again in the deep comforters of her own bed. The telephone beside the bed rang again.

The illuminated numbers on the clock blinked '3:07 am'.

'_Oh, for pity's sake.'_

Eileen Curry picked up the receiver blearily, holding the phone to her ear. "Curry Residence."

A warm southern drawl tumbled out of the other end of the receiver, "Hey, Eileen. I'm in. Need your help, though."

"God, Scanner. It's 3am." Eileen buried her head deeper in the pillow and wished, not for the first time, that her husband was there to pass the phone to. But Ethan was at a conference, and wouldn't be back until Monday.

"Yep. This moment brought to you by Mountain Dew." Scanner sounded entirely too cheerful.

Well, he wasn't going away. Eileen tucked the blanket under her arms and sat up in bed. "OK. What are you 'in' exactly? It better not require bail."

There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. "Oh no. Remember that number you gave me to research? It was an IP Address. Took a while to break down the security, but I'm almost in. I'm just having a hard time cracking the final password."

Eileen snapped fully awake. "The number I gave you? From Tuesday?"

"Yep. I'm hoping you know something about it because I don't really know what this links up to. We could be hacking the CIA for all I know." There was a pause. "Not that I would consider breaking US Government confidentiality of course." There was a touch of paranoia in Scanner's tone.

The number Margaret O'Brien had found. It could have been nothing. It probably was. But Eileen was not going to let even the tiniest clue to her daughter's whereabouts slip through her fingers. Scanner, also known as Joe Petrosky, had a gift for finding information that wasn't easy to find. He also owed her a favor or two. That the code should actually connect to a computer system was exciting and terrifying at the same time. She struggled to think of anything that could be used to help Scanner crack the password.

"Amusement?"

The sound of clicking keys punctuated the sound of Scanner's breathing. "Nope."

"Ride?"

"Nope."

"Dungeon?"

"No. . . there something you're not telling me? Because if this is porn, I've got plenty, and I'm willing to share."

Eileen humphed, disgusted and amused. "I'm sure it's not. How about Dragon?"

"Nope."

The image of the huge platinum dragon from her dream came to mind, so she rattled off, "Bahamut?"

Clicking. An excited hoot. "Yes! You got it. How'd you know? We're in."

Eileen shook her head as she settled back in her pillow and grabbed the notepad by her bed. "Just a lucky guess. So, what do you see?"

After a long pause and many keystrokes, Scanner answered, "It's the project planning documents for a facility relocation. But the equipment they're moving is straight out of a science fiction movie. Dimensional boundary analyzers? Temporal phase shift buffers? Plasma generators and portal breach devices? Wild."

"Where are they moving to?"

"Doesn't say. Someplace remote, I'd guess. They're moving some of this stuff in army vehicles. Huh. This is cool."

"What is it?" Eileen leaned forward eagerly, holding the phone tightly against her ear.

"Says the move has to be complete within a month. The document calls it the next 'rift event threshold.' Hey, this doesn't have anything to do with Diana, does it? Cause I could do some more digging. . . "

"Scanner. . . you're a sweetheart. Anything you could find out, we could use. I've got to call Ethan. Thank you!"

Sleep long forgotten, Eileen reached for her bathrobe.

'_Diana could be alive!'_

* * *

The swaying motion of the palanquin and the rosy tones of sunset lulled Sheila with an offer of sleep, but she had not heard the cries of the drivers signaling their huge beasts to stop for the night. She stretched, trying to get the kinks out of her back. These ships of the desert were far better than walking in the sand-dunes, and better than camel-back too. But the caravan had been traveling for weeks, stopping only in the evening to rest, and she felt stiff and sore. Fortunately, the climate had grown cooler, and irrigated farmlands lay only a day's travel further to the west. She smiled. It would be good to get out and walk again.

Beyond the white silk curtains of the palanquin, she could hear the sound of armor jangling and a voice calling out. She quickly leaned over and pulled the curtains aside to see Akbah climbing smoothly up the side of her mighty Mamut. Although she could see nothing wrong, instinct born of too many years on the run as a thief made her check the knives she had stored at her wrists and in her boot. The captain of her guards always seemed ready for war. So was she.

The guardsman climbed over the lip of the palanquin, perching on its edge. He had caught the gesture. "You are wise to be cautious, but you need not worry, Princess Sheila. I will not let the caravan stop if there is any risk of attack."

Sheila dropped her hands. "Is that why we have not stopped yet?"

Akbah frowned. "Yes. We are too exposed here. There are only drywater gullies and knife canyons surrounding us, too narrow even for a horse to travel. No place where we will not be exposed. There should be shelter beyond the ridge to the west which we should reach only in a few hours." He looked out across the desert to the east, where night was gathering in shades of black and dark blue. "If we are careful and avoid laming any of the animals, we will be safe enough to camp. None will dare attack while we are armed and ready for them."

The thief could feel the edge of tension in the guardsman's voice. The worry in her heart mirrored it. "They're dead. Akbah. Maybe they won't care."

Akbah turned to her and then wrapped the black cloth that hung around his head and shoulders so it covered his face. Only his eyes, dark and determined, gleamed from beneath the turban and shining helmet he wore. "Then they can die again."

Sheila dropped her eyes and looked away, but he reached out and caught her chin gently with a gauntleted hand. He turned her face towards his. "No. No shame. You have been bought with the blood of my king. You are treasure beyond price. And no fear either. The king does not call daughter one who is a coward, nor entrust the safety of his kingdom to a child. You will prove worthy of him."

"I will try." Sheila breathed.

Akbah nodded briskly. "You shall. Now, let us walk together a while. It would be far to fall should this great creature stumble in the dark."

* * *

For great ages of the Realm, Shadow Demon had been denied the privilege of touch. Now, he had what he had treasured. He could feel the black marble floor beneath him. He could feel the icy wind that howled through the midnight palace.

But there were other feelings that had come to him in these recent days.

He groveled at the feet of his Lich-Lord with homage. He could feel the blazing red eyes looking down on him. An unfamiliar sensation tingled across his back and down to his wingtips at that regard. He cleared his throat. "My Lord Master, you have succeeded. The soulsong of the skull has awakened the bones of mortals across the whole Realm. They rise and await your orders."

A voice devoid of warmth, of life, spoke. "Rise."

Shadow Demon gracefully pulled himself upright, but maintained his humble posture. "What will you have of me, My Lord?" His voice trembled.

Towering above him, gaunt blue flesh had caved to wrap a skeletal skull. Wings once of black velvet now were skeletal white bones, sheets of flickering blue energy filling the void between them. The robes of black and gray hung loosely about an empty ribcage. Still, the single, gleaming black horn remained. But most of all, Shadow Demon felt the red flames of Venger's gaze peeling away the layers of his shadow-flesh. Those eyes held only one emotion now, one fuel for the arcane energies of eternal life. Only hatred remained.

"Now, my minions shall hunt them and kill them. All of the pupils of Dungeonmaster. I will destroy them all. Then I shall tear apart the very earth until I find the old man, and he shall die alone. And after. . . after. . . I will leave the Realm for the Dead. I shall be satisfied."

Shadow Demon licked his lips, a new pleasure, and felt one more sensation that made his whole body quiver with its power.

Awe.

* * *

"Princess. Princess. Look at me." His voice was an insistent whisper that cut through the darkness enfolding her. She lifted her hand to her forehead. Her hair was wet. All around her, there was the sound of steel clashing on steel and the screams of dying animals.

She opened her eyes.

Above her hovered the covered face of the captain of the guard. Akbar's dark eyes were shadowed, and blood stained his helmet and the cloth that hid his face. "Listen to me. You were hurt in the fighting by your Mamut. The Dead. . . they will not stop their attack. It is too long until dawn. We cannot hold."

The blur that was the last few hours jerked into focus. Sheila twisted to her feet, ignoring the pain in her head to feel for her knives in the dark, blood-soaked sand. Akbar handed her two of her blades, hilt first.

"The daggers, they can do nothing against these enemies. Princess Sheila, only the shadows can save you now. You must run."

Sheila shook her head fiercely, long training keeping her silent.

"There is no choice!" Akbar commanded. "Reach the canyons and make your way to the farmlands where you can take shelter. We can keep them back, but not for the whole night. You must take the messages of Lord Ramoud to the other lands, and find a way to defeat this evil."

Sheila beckoned towards herself, then pointed towards the west.

The guardsman shook his head. "My men need me. I may be able to lead a fighting retreat to safer ground where we can hold firm, but your message is more important."

A silent tear slid through the blood on Sheila's cheek. Akbar pulled the whip from his belt and handed it to the young woman. "Be strong. Remember you are worthy. You will not fail. Now Go!"

With a push, he forced Sheila away from the lantern light and the sounds of fighting. Already he had turned, scimitar drawn to return to battle against the legion of bones that erupted from the desert sands.

Sheila clutched the whip and drew her hood over her face. Silent still, she raced into the darkness, seeking the hidden canyons and the promise of safety that lay beyond. She left no footprints, and her tears were lost into the dry sands.


	15. Hunted

**Chapter 15: Hunted**

Rose-petal pink was blushing through the sky at dawn, allowing a little light to filter down to Sheila's dark shadows. She was tired, hungry, cold, and soaked to the skin, but she kept slogging forward. The knife canyon was little more than a crevasse in the rock, cut over the centuries by creeks carrying away the runoff of flash floods that sliced through this part of the Great Wastes. Now, its bottom was an ankle-deep muddy flow.

The light drove away some of the night terrors and Sheila's pace slowed. Had she really run all night? The first part of her journey was haunted by the firelight of the burning caravan she left behind her, and the sound of steel on steel. She had glanced over her shoulder for only a moment to see one of the great Mamut felled by desiccated corpses wrapped around with linen cloths and carrying curved scimitars and kopesh. They did not see her to follow, but she was convinced they would have tried were it not for the courage of Akbar's men. She had reached the knife canyon after an hour of running. It was inky black inside, but she knew all the canyons ran towards the west, and the rivers and safety of the farmlands. The shadows served her well. She did not know how the dead sensed the living, but the water would hide her from almost anything, magical or not.

* * *

Dimly lit in the glow of his monitor, Gabriel Bahamut smiled.

* * *

It had been fourteen hours since Scanner's last phone call. Eileen pulled her blue Civic to a stop in the parking lot behind an old convenience store. She glanced around before climbing out, but the only movement was the fluttering of some torn construction tape around an open pit near the road. Scanner's apartment was on the second floor of a townhome a few blocks away, but she didn't mind the walk. It gave her a chance to prepare for the worst.

"Joe's paranoia is rubbing off on me," she grumbled as she strode down the street. "He just forgot to call."

She walked up the steps and rang the door buzzer. The intercom gave no response, but in a few minutes the door was opened by young woman with big eyes and blond pixie-bobbed hair. "Oh! Hi, Mrs. Curry. Are you looking for the Scan-man?"

"Hello, Jackie." Eileen smiled. "I am. Have you seen him?"

The resident of the first floor apartment shook her head. "Not since breakfast. He was coming back with some more Dew. He should be up there now." She held the door open for Eileen.

"Thank you." Eileen went in and started up the stairs.

"Oh. . . wait!" Jackie let the front door fall shut and rummaged about in her bag. "He wanted me to give this to the Prof, but since you're here, I can just give it to you." She pulled out a very battered paperback and handed it to Eileen. "Have a great day!" Then, she tugged her bag over her shoulder, spun on her heel, pulled open the door, and disappeared into the twilight.

Eileen turned the book over to read the cover. A Wrinkle in Time. Scanner certainly had an odd sense of humor. She put the paperback in her purse and climbed the stairs.

There was no response when she knocked on Scanner's door. Eileen frowned, a cold sensation building under her chest bone. She turned the handle on the door. It swung open. The feeling rose to her throat.

Scanner's apartment was empty, stripped completely bare. She had been expecting a wave of devastation. . . pizza boxes and electronic parts everywhere were par for the course as far as Joe Petrosky was concerned. But there was not a single scrap of paper on the floor or piece of furniture anywhere. Only the dingy curtains and scattered crumbs and dust bunnies remained, dimly lit with the light of the streetlamps from outside. Numb, Eileen walked from room to room. They were all the same.

"Oh, Scanner. . . " she breathed. "You were right after all. . . "

Her shadow lazily moved from left to right across the wall, thrown up in stark relief by a pair of headlights outside. It merged with the general shadows as the headlights turned off. Eileen slipped over to the window and pulled aside the corner of a curtain. Outside, a black Crown Victoria with darkened windows had pulled up across the street. The passenger door opened, and out climbed a dark-haired man in a black suit.

'_A Fed,'_ Eileen immediately thought.

The man certainly looked the part. He surveyed the street up and down, and then looked up at the window through which she peeked. She thanked her lucky stars that it hadn't been fully dark when she arrived. She had not yet turned on the lights. The man bent to say something to another person in the car, and she let the curtain shut.

Eileen swallowed. They would see her if she left the house through the door.. If they were here because of Scanner's hacking, they might be trying to hide Scanner's discoveries. . . and everything that they had learned about Diana's disappearance. They could disappear her too. Worse, they could move Diana. She and Ethan would never be able to find her then.

She heard the door of the car shut. After a second or two, she heard the front door open.

'_They have a key!_ _Maybe they think Jackie learned something. Or maybe they know about. . . .' _She dropped her hand to feel for the paperback book in her purse. It would be just like Scanner to suspect he was being watched. She couldn't let them take the results from her.

Eileen looked around the empty apartment. There was no where to hide. When she heard the first footstep on the stairs, she knew she had no other choice. She had to get out.

The tall woman ran to the bedroom and unlatched the window. She tucked the book into her waistband and dropped her purse out of the opening, then squeezed herself through to perch on the ledge. Below, through the twilight, she could make out the litter-strewn back yard, with its dying tree overhanging the alley behind. A leafless branch offered a promising hold, if only she could reach it. She stretched out her hand as far as she could, but it was still a couple of feet out of reach.

The apartment door opened. '_No choice. Diana could do this. . . '_

Eileen leapt from the window for the branch.

All her life, Eileen had thought of herself as ungainly, too tall, too awkward. She had marveled at Diana's grace and agility at gymnastics tournaments, and cheered her on. But if Eileen had ever had the potential for that sort of skill, it had vanished long ago. Gymnastics were for teenagers, and Eileen was not a teenager any more. She was a mom. Except. She was flying through the air. She was gripping the branch with outstretched hands. It could have been more graceful, perhaps, but she was startled that she had gotten that far. She let herself drop down to a lower branch, then to the ground in one smooth motion.

Eileen looked up at the tree, breathing hard. '_Wow.' _But she did not have time to question as the lights behind the bedroom flicked into life. She grabbed her purse and raced down the alley towards her car just as the silhouette of the man with the suit appeared in the bedroom window. '_Just luck. Gotta get this book back to Ethan._' It would take less time to get the book home than it would for her heart to stop thundering in her throat.

* * *

Dan O'Brien leaned against the doorpost, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he watched his son. Bobby was doing his chores, the sound of his rake rattling among the leaves as he pulled them into an ever-larger pile of red and brown. He was dressed in a plain gray T-shirt and jeans, despite the cool weather, and his hair was still shaggier than Dan would have liked it. The boy didn't like getting it cut.

But he was so much different now than he had been just a few years ago, when God or fortune returned him to them. He was tall, taller than his father, at least, and still had a couple of inches to go. Bobby's frame had filled out with powerful muscle, and though Dan saw the little boy, there was no denying that the body had become that of a strong young man.

The electrician's heart swelled with pride. And shame.

Bobby looked up and saw him. "What's up, Dad?"

"Come here, Bob. I need to talk to you."

Bobby laid aside his rake and walked up to the porch, resting his big hands on the porch rail. "OK. . . " he sounded wary.

Dan took a deep breath. "Bob," he finally said, "Remember when you first came back to us. After. . . what happened. . . ."

The boy nodded silently, his face betraying no emotion. Such caution was very unlike the boy he had been, even after his return. It was a caution his father feared he had learned from him

"You told some pretty wild stories back then, about what happened. At the time, we blamed drugs, or damage, or some other psychological scarring, I know. . . .and pushed you, really hard to, uh, find another explanation."

Dan could feel his son stiffen, but he made no other response. This was it, then. "Bobby, some of the other parents have. . . found some evidence. . . that tells us things were a lot more complicated than any of us could have believed. I ought to have trusted you more then. I want to trust you now. So, son, I'm asking you with all my openness and trust. . . " The man closed his eyes. "Your initial stories, about a portal and another world. And how the others. . . how your sister. . . are still there. Were those stories true?"

Bobby said nothing for a long time, searching his father's face for any hint of deception or betrayal. His blue eyes betrayed little, but Dan knew his son enough to recognize the pain behind them. Finally the boy responded, without flinching or looking away, "Yes."

Dan walked around the porch rail and wrapped his son in a warm bear-hug. "I believe you. I couldn't before and I'm sorry. But I believe you now. We'll find them."

Bobby O'Brien buried his face in his father's shoulder and began to cry.

* * *

Once, in the Tower of the Circle of Light, Diana had seen her reflection in a magic mirror. In that reflection, through its mysterious effect, she had felt the utter weariness of extreme age cause her staff to slip through her gnarled, arthritic fingers, clutching at it without strength, only a futile hope as her greatest fear consumed her.

That was the weariness she felt now. Her weapon was heavy in her hands. Muscles normally flexible and strong ached, stiff and sore from snatched fragments of sleep and constant battle. Her hair, once her pride and joy, she had braided back in tight cornrows, for she had no time to even brush it any more. The Red Blades had been decimated. Eric was out trying to boost morale now, hiding injuries in his shoulder and calf. Diana rested her head against the cool wood of her spear, closing her eyes to the wounded bodies and drawn features of the mercenaries around her.

"Just two minutes. . . .Then I'll be right there, Eric." She took a slow, controlled breath, willing the weariness away.

At first, it hadn't seemed so bad. The initial attacks of the undead upon the camps of the Red Blades were put down quickly. Their opponents were uncoordinated, slow, and clumsy, and generally left the field by daybreak. But, they were not alive. They did not need food, or rest. The mercenary band did. They were only human. Soldiers began to make mistakes, or stumble in exhaustion. They would fall. And then, the next night, the fallen would be standing side by side the very undead that killed him, keening for the blood of his fellows. The Blades' numbers decreased. Theirs grew.

It took everything Eric and Diana had to keep the company together. Half were convinced that the undead were hunting them, the dead of Coulone rising to finish the job that Trebant Ford had begun, or the dead of Darkcruigh rising in vengeance for the failure of the Blades to bring victory to their king. She didn't know who these dead bones belonged to, but Diana felt deep down that they were hunting blindly for her, for Eric. Her gut screamed Venger.

Either way, it did not matter. Any soldiers who stole away from camp never returned.

At least, not alive.

A jingling sound interrupted her moment of rest, and Diana felt a gauntleted hand touch her lightly on the shoulder. "You alright, Di?"

Diana nodded and pulled herself upright. "Yeah. Just resting my eyes for a minute." She twisted the corner of her mouth up into her best attempt at a reassuring grin.

Eric's hand lingered a little longer, then fell to his side. "I'm actually asleep, myself. I just had irises tattooed on top of my eyelids. What do you think?"

She couldn't help but laugh. "Not bad. That explains about half the things that have happened to you since we got here."

There were no tattoos on Eric's elegant features, yet. But there were deep bags under his eyes and his cheekbones were drawn with hunger and lack of rest. His short goatee served only to make his face seem even more severe. But he responded to her laughter with his old smirk, and Diana could see her old nemesis in her current love. He shook his head. "Monsters? Demons? You know I could handle them in my sleep." He hesitated, and the smirk faded away. He lowered his voice. "This. . . is a whole lot harder."

Diana stopped laughing and nodded in weary agreement, saying nothing.

Eric glanced over his shoulder at the mercenary camp, slowly pulling up stakes for another days hard march. "We're only two days out of Coulone. If we can just get there before nightfall, we'll have the city walls and paved roads and Coulone's remaining armies between us and them." He gestured out towards the fading darkness in the west.

Diana nodded. "I know. But will they take us in?"

"They will. I've got reassurances from the Prince that they need every fighting man they can get. They even have made an alliance with Darkcruigh." He watched the soldiers in silence for a moment. "I guess there is one advantage to all these attacks."

Diana straightened. She looked at the devastated faces around them. "What's that, Lover?" she asked, tiredly.

Eric's eyes were sad, and he lowered his voice to a bare whisper. "The Blades. They're too tired to be terrified any more. They even think he can help. We can go back. We can see Presto again."

* * *

"Ham on Rye with Swiss. And an extra pickle." The tall, slender man pulled out a few dollar bills and passed them to the deli cashier who rang him up.

"Positively proletarian, Ethan," came an urbane baritone behind him.

The professor turned. Steven Montgomery, dressed, as usual, in an impeccable suit and tie, seemed out of place in the retro deli.

"Order, please," the young lady behind the counter asked her second customer.

The executive glanced at her. "Roast beef with Horseradish on white."

The cashier rang him up quickly, and Ethan selected and led him to a table in a quiet corner of the deli. "What can I say? I know all the best delis in town."

"I hope that the rest of the things you have learned are equally useful." Steven responded.

Their conversation was briefly interrupted as their sandwiches were delivered to their table. But as soon as the server had left, the professor answered, "Yes. I believe so. Joe's notes were surprisingly complete. The book that held the CD he stored them on was, in itself, a clue. I had the opportunity to read it while I was working on this project. Though Dymocorp does not call their portals 'Tesseracts'."

Steven Montgomery rolled his eyes. "I've tapped contacts right into the Department of Defense. It's wonderful what a well-paid lobbyist can get for you these days. From them, we've learned the nature of Dymocorp's research and development. Resource development, of course, we would call it in industry, but I do not think stripmining would be an inapt term. We have. . . .hunches and clues. . . .that seem to hint that they may have a second location in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming, yes?"

Ethan nodded, chewing thoughtfully on his sandwich.

Steven continued. "What we need, then, is a way to pinpoint that new location so we can confront these people directly and determine exactly what happened to Eric and the others. Were you able to resolve that problem?"

The professor put down his sandwich and reached under the table. He lifted a briefcase and set it on the table. "Right in here," he answered, his smile brilliant against his ocher skin.

Steven Montgomery raised an eyebrow. "What is that?"

Ethan Curry flipped the latches. An instrument with a green oscilliscope screen and several dials lay in protective foam egg crate, long antenna carefully collapsed to one side. "My muon detector. Of course, background state muons are normally created as cosmic rays pass through our atmosphere, degrading into pions which break down into muons. However, from what I understand from these notes, the portal creation machinery will routinely generate pions. There would be a detectable level of muons for. . . ." He mentally looked up, running a quick calculation in his head, "within I think about 1.3 kilometers of the site. Maybe more depending on whether the special relativity laws would apply."

Shaking his head, Steven pushed the briefcase closed. "You lost me at 'muon detector'. But I trust you. I have a helicopter. I'll arrange for us to leave as soon as possible."

Ethan re-latched the briefcase. "Good. But we're going to need one more thing."

"What is that?"

Ethan picked up his sandwich and took a bite. After a very long moment, he answered, "We're going to need a gun. Someone trained to use it. And preferably someone who can't and won't be 'disappeared' as easily as Scanner was. We need the law on our side for this one. Otherwise, there's a chance that this will all just fade into the woodwork and our children won't be the only ones who may be lost in another world."

Steven gave a slow smile. "Detective Pendleton's universe is about to get a little stranger, I think."

* * *

The water sang as it trickled over the rocks, a tiny waterfall in a forest stream. As he fletched new arrows for his bow, Hank listened to its music, and the stories it carried with it.

It told the story of the rain, of course, forming in a droplet out of moisture in the sky to fall from leaf to leaf and on to the warm, dark earth of the forest floor. It told the story of a long, slow trickle through the tracks of earthworms and the healthy decay of fallen leaves to gather in tiny grooves in the soil. And then, down, down, pulled by an inexorable call to brook, then, stream, then river, then the vastness of the sea.

A smell on the wind made him wrinkle his nose, the stench of the tomb. Just as a tiny raindrop gathered and coalesced into a creek, then an unstoppable river, there was something. . . leaking. . . into the world. It too was flowing together, pulled by a relentless call, and in gathering, it grew stronger every day. It was vile, tainted. It was death.

And it was looking for him.

Hank shook his head. '_Sometimes I think I must be crazy,'_ he thought. The glade was peaceful now, there was no danger here. Weird feelings and strange connections, tiny pickups on half-sensed intuition, they hardly were the concrete, if complex, rules Presto had felt the world must work by, or the cynical logic Eric had grown to claim. Diana was inclined towards the practical; hunch or logic, if it worked, it worked, and that was her main concern.

But Sheila would have understood, once. Sheila lived by faith. Faith in him, faith in them. Faith in Dungeonmaster. Faith that they would get home someday. Then Bobby died, and she lost that faith. Hank felt a familiar, painful swelling in his heart. When he had lost Sheila's faith in him, he'd lost his own faith in himself, in those thousand little intuitive hunches that he had been using to lead them.

He watched the stream trickle over the rocks.

He had learned, perhaps, the source and meaning of all those feelings that had guided him. In the Realm, things happened for a reason, and he was part of that reason, and the reason was for the best. He had learned faith in that, at least.

The leaden feeling in his chest did not go away, however. "I still miss her," he said aloud, speaking to the whispering trees.

A deep, steady voice answered, "Then I hope you find her again."

Hank was on his feet in an instant, his newest arrow knocked before his mind had even registered it was a man, not a woodland spirit or the trees themselves who had spoken. A tall figure stepped out of the brush on the edge of the clearing, carrying a bow of dark wood like his own.

"Steady. It's still daylight, and I have life in me yet."

Hank let fall the arrow and jumped over the stream, reaching out to take the man's hand in his own. "Donovan! It's so good to see you again."

Donovan clasped Hank's hand with his own. "You too, son."

Hank pulled back to take stock of his former teacher. The ranger's gray eyes were haggard; Donovan clearly hadn't slept in days. Sun-weathered wrinkles criss-crossed his soot-darkened skin, and his hair was streaked with black and gray. Unmended cuts marked his leather armor, stained with blood from minor wounds. There was little else in his stoic features to reveal his feelings, but instinct told Hank there was more.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Standwell is burned. And Madeline. . . she's gone." There was open loss in Donovan's voice.

Hank felt the yoke of grief settle around his shoulders in a way it had not since the young ones had parted ways in Standwell in the days after Bobby's death. "The undead. . . ?" he asked, already sure of the answer.

Donovan nodded wearily. "Yes. They came after her. As they hunt me also." His eyes narrowed as he looked at the younger man. "And you too." He shook his head. "Before she died, Madeline told me of a story she'd heard, of an artifact, a crystal skull, with powers that could cause this corruption. I was trying to get to Melchior in Coulone, and see if he could find where it lies."

"And to destroy it," Hank answered. It was not a question.

"Yes."

"We'll have help. Presto, Eric, Diana, at least. We've saved the Realm before. We can do it again if we have to." Hank picked up the last of his arrows, took a sip of the water from the stream, and led the way from the clearing.

Donovan watched him leave, kneeling to drink before following. As he watched the golden-haired young man disappear into the forest, he said softly, "So did we."

* * *

And then the smiles and tears, the hugs, the congratulations, the worry and the relief, they were all over. As glad as he was to see so many of his friends again, Eric had always felt a little uncomfortable when the emotions got raw. The wisecracks that were coming to mind lost their luster when there really were killer zombies howling for your blood outside

Albeit, terrifying creatures howling for his blood was just like old times.

"So. . . ." He gestured at the map in front of him. "We're here, in what's your name's keep in Coulone. . . "

The old man in purple robes arched an elegant eyebrow. "I generally refer to it as 'The glorious tower of the mighty wizard Melchior the Great', but as you wish."

"Never that great, Old Man," said Durnst wryly. The captain was seated in a chair by the window. A white bandage was wrapped around his eyes, and he wore plain, if well made, merchant's garb, his steel put away for good. Across his lap lay a plain walking stick.

The new commander of the Red Blades just shook his head. "The Blades were attacked here, here, here, and here." He pointed at four locations on the map. So where did they come from?"

"The corruption of the natural order. The part of each person's soul which knows evil," Hank answered thoughtfully. Eric scratched his chin. Of course, Hank would grow a better beard than him too. Eric had last seen him just stumbling out of the woods looking for Presto after 'the Incident', wounded and rambling incoherently. Now, he seemed focused, but apart, his handsome face worn with melancholy and hard travels.

"I didn't mean in a Shaolin temple, 'Attention, Grasshopper' sort of way. I meant literally."

Diana stepped forward. "The ones we fought were human. They wore the armor of southern Tardos. . . .you could see it in the Dragonsbane engraving on the vambraces." Had she changed? His lover was ageless beauty and endless summer, of course. But she had been annealed into a wiry core of solid steel, harder, stronger, her hair braided back in tight rows, with tattoos marking her body with hidden meaning. Eric watched her plot out the paths of the various groups of undead as they moved across the map before them.

That old ranger, Donovan, moved more markers into place. "These were from the northern borders. Plaguedead from the Rot ten years back. They attacked Standwell, though it was well out of their path, and then turned towards Coulone." He turned towards Presto, who'd been hanging back behind Melchior and trying to avoid looking at Durnst. "I know Hank spoke to you already. I'm truly sorry, lad. This world has never known a better woman or truer friend. I would have given anything to have Madeline herself here to tell of the Crystal Skull and its powers over the undead instead of I."

Presto looked lost and grieved and more than a little guilt-ridden . He was taller now, and his hair had grown long, but Presto's white robes still looked two sizes too large, and he still seemed so awkward.

"I. . . um. . . She was. . . "

_'So innocuous.__'_

Eric heard an ominous rumbling. Melchior shot the young man a glare. Presto swallowed.

_'So terrifying.__'_

His best friend, perhaps, once upon a time, his only friend, was the most feared man in the Realm.

Presto shook his head quickly and redirected everyone back to the map. "Then it looks like they're all coming here now."

Eric smacked the map once and stood up. "Right. And it doesn't take a genius to figure out what had to have happened." The others in the room looked at him expectantly. He straightened. "Well, it's obvious. Old Horn-Head must have come back again. And he is pissed! He's fixing to get those magic weapons and us once and for all."

"But we don't have the weapons," Diana questioned. "And there are attacks at places where we never were. We've never even been to Forest of Esther. And we have lots of reports of them searching through the villages there before those forces began moving towards us."

Melchior chortled. "Perhaps YOU never were, Acrobat. But this whole Realm isn't about you Young Ones, you know."

"What do you mean?" Hank asked quietly.

The wizard set his gaze steadily on Hank's mentor, Donovan, and then looked at Durnst. "Your companion Randale often retired to the villages of Esther, as I recall. Something about the juniper berries and their superior qualities in the local alcoholic beverages."

Donovan lay his head back against the cool wall behind him and closed his eyes. "It's true. I received word he was back from the East."

Durnst bowed his head. "Randale, you poor fool."

"I don't understand." Presto's eyebrows drew together in confusion.

Melchoir looked back at the gathered young people. "You did not think that you were Dungeonmaster's only pupils, did you? Of course not! There were others. One was group of young men and women from far away, a group who saved me from a rather ugly mob many years ago, when I was a young man. Of course, not many of Dungeonmaster's students now live." The wizard gave grim smirk. "His instruction tends to be a rather lethal line of work. But, if you believe that the Dark Prince holds grudges, then the pattern of these attacks becomes clear. He seeks to kill all of you."

He paused dramatically, then gravely intoned, "Considering the magic he wields, I do not doubt that the rest of the Realm will quickly follow."

After a long moment, Eric broke the silence, gesturing at the map before him. "So. We royally piss the big guy off. In return, an army of the Evil Dead, packed with ten thousand of Venger's freshest zombies, have made us, personally, their target. Every person they kill adds to their numbers, and they can't die." He tried to stifle a hysterical giggle. "We don't have our magic weapons, but at least we have their attention."

Hank looked at Presto, and his voice cracked with heartache. "Sheila. . . .if Venger is after us. . . Please, Presto. . . "

The magician looked down at his feet and swallowed. "I told you I can't see her. But I saw Ramoud, and she was with him there, safe, in his palace. It wasn't that long ago. You know that he would do anything to protect her. She's as safe as any of us are."

'_He still loves her,'_ Eric thought, as he watched a tiny portion of the worry seep out of Hank's shoulders. He sighed aloud.

His friends and their teachers turned to look at him. "There's no choice, really, then, is there? Venger is coming for us. He'll stop at nothing to kill us, and take the Realm next. There's only one thing to do. We have to get to him first. We need to attack. Now. Before there are even more undead. Before he can get to Sheila. While there are still enough people left alive that we can build an army with a hope of reaching him. We can destroy this crystal skull and stop him, or die trying."

And that was that.


	16. Conflagration

**Chapter 16: Conflagration**

Lightning flared and thunder rolled across the sky like the chariot wheels of a heavenly army. Such storms were rare in the kingdom of Zinn, yet it seemed to be the season for them. _ 'A bitter night,'_ thought Lawrence, watching the flashes of light from the window of his bedroom.

"Sire? Your decision? The Celestial Knights expect a response by morning." His secretary, a portly but industrious man who made up with earnestness what he lacked in imagination, stood with a writing board in-hand, ready to transcribe the king's reply.

The decision tasted as bitter as the storm that raged around him. Zinn was a small kingdom, but it fielded a considerable army. Due to the circumstances of his ascension to the throne, it had not recently crossed the will of Venger. The king had maintained the status quo since then. The attacks of undead that plagued the Realm had so far left Zinn without scathe.

Now the Celestial Knights brought word of Venger's return. He stood at the heart of the undead legions storming the kingdoms. An army was being raised to strike against the Overlord one final time. They had come to Zinn for aid.

"What do you recommend, Wosley?" Lawrence asked. "If I send my army, I anger Venger. If the undead finally do turn against my walls, we shall be defenseless to stand against them. If I send a token force, I send men to die for a meaningless gesture. If I do not send any, then I have abandoned the other nations."

The secretary cleared his throat. "Ah hem. It is said that the armies are led by some of the Young Ones. Is that true, my liege?"

Lawrence nodded. "Yes. The Cavalier and the Acrobat." He tried to keep his voice neutral.

"The Cavalier who almost wed your sister? The Acrobat who helped him pass the Trial of the Worm?"

Lawrence nodded. "Speak no ill of them."

Wosley bowed. "Very well. Then you know what my answer must be. I can return in an hour after you have made your decision?"

"Go."

The courtier bowed again and left the room, allowing the bedroom door to fall shut behind him. Lawrence turned back to the window again. The rain hammered the windowglass. He pounded his fists against the sill. "I can't send troops. I don't dare."

A voice smooth as silk and sweet memory came out of the darkness. "You have to."

The king whirled, about to call for help, when the shadowed figured emerged from her hiding place in the shadowed bed curtains. "Don't call the guards. It's just me."

The woman was drenched to the bone, red hair plastered flat with rain. Her clothes were filthy and torn. Her eyes were green jade and locked on his. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered from seven years before.

"Sheila! You have returned! Please tell me you are here to reconsider my proposition?" It was a slim chance, but Lawrence had a feeling that their time together would be fleeting. A man had to make opportunity when the chance presented itself.

Sheila raised a hand tiredly and smiled. "I'm sorry. But you must help me. If Venger is behind the undead, as you say, and Eric and Diana are fighting him, you have to help them. They don't have their magic weapons. They need you. And you need to help me reach them."

Lawrence shook his head. "Zinn has never had grievance with Venger. Yes, I know that was due to my sister's evil, but this is a prosperous kingdom now. My people are safe. If I anger him, the lives of everyone in this kingdom will be at risk."

The woman's jaw clenched, he could see, despite the shadowed room . This was not the soft girl who wept with gratitude on his shoulder. Her eyes held a thousand stories, and her very expression made him feel a pang of guilt. "King Lawrence, this is Venger. He's leading the dead. They don't care how you barter or bargain. The more they kill, the more those armies will grow. Eventually, Zinn will fall. Your only hope is to stop him before there are too many to stop."

Lawrence tilted his head to one side, examining Sheila. "Is this, then, what you ask of me?"

Sheila did not hesitate to reply. "Yes."

The king nodded. "Very well. I will do. . . "

"Master!" A frightened query from the bedroom doorway interrupted them both. "I heard voices!" Wosley stood in the open doorway, a lamp in his hand, his writing board still tucked under his arm.

Lawrence was caught off guard. '_How do I explain the presence of a bedraggled woman within his bedchamber without impugning on her honor or my own?'_ "Um. . . I. . . "

Sheila seemed to sense the problem. She stepped forward into the light that spilled from the open doorway. She tilted her chin up as she looked at the portly courtier. "I am Sheila, daughter of the King of Many Kings and emissary of Kadish. Ramoud invokes the ancient treaties and demands an urgent and covert alliance with Zinn to stand against the force of Venger. I require an immediate escort to the armies that march against him."

Wosley quailed before her imperious glare and glanced at Lawrence with pleading eyes.

Lawrence just shook his head in admiration. "You heard the Princess. Pen the reply to the Celestial Knights. Our full forces will be marching immediately. We place them under the Young Ones' command."

* * *

"You are dying, old man." The shifting water-images of bloodshed and death dissolved into a single, burning yellow eye, rimmed with red scales. Dungeonmaster stumbled from the pool within the Cave of Vision, falling backwards as first one, then a second, then three more heads rose from the water like tentacles. Her image was translucent, clearly an illusion. Around each of her necks there sparkled a band of silver.

There was little need to defy her. "You are right. There is nothing I can do."

"Surrendering your long fight now?" The Dragonqueen mocked. "He, who sold himself to the power of the Material Planes to stop the boy? Not one more battle between the gods of this world, Darkness and Light? I lose all my best entertainments at the end of an age."

The old man slowly, painfully, pulled himself to his knees. "You know well enough that the Light has fled me. I am too weak a vessel for such primal forces now."

"HE has not surrendered, Dungeonmaster. Even now he lies beyond the door of death, and, through that act, he defies you. He destroys the land. And see what he has done to me?" Her voices raised in pitch as she shrieked her displeasure.

The illusion of Tiamat's body pushed further through the Cave's pool. Dungeonmaster could see now that each neck was bound with a silver manacle. Each manacle was fastened to a chain fixed tightly to a ring in the rock below her. As the illusion filled behind her, he could see the vastness of her mountain home. His eyes widened in surprise.

"Yesssss." She hissed. "Even me. I knew that he would come for me in the height of his power, and so he has. And, self-chosen avatar of Good," Tiamat sneered. "You watch and do nothing."

The small man pulled himself to his feet and stiffly straightened his robes. "What do you expect? I have no more followers to send into battle. Their weapons lie in the Dragon's Graveyard. The Rogue and the Amazon are already dead. My body is dying and my magic grows weak. An army of the dead protects Venger. I would die before I had a hope of defeating him now."

"You are dying, Old Man," Tiamat repeated. "Of what use are you rotting in this cave? Your pawns, defenseless as they are, march against Venger themselves. And you will offer them nothing?" Her heads lashed about, straining at their chains. "Very well. If you are too weak to fight your son, go to your pupils. Tell them where he can be found. Perhaps they can remind an old coward of the meaning of courage."

* * *

"NO, NOT 'WHY ME?' I SAID WYOMING!" John Pendleton roared into the cellular phone. The rain was pounding down on him, and he held the side of his trenchcoat over the device to try to shield it. The wind was strong enough to whip the coat about, and it did little to block out the sound. He hurriedly took shelter under the rolling metal staircase as soon as he could reach it.

It helped a little.

"Why? The Park Kids case. . . Yeah, that one. The parents think they have something. They asked me to go."

A roar above the sound of the wind made the detective look up. He saw the black jet with the white gryphon of Montgomery Industries rolling forward down the runway. Soon they would be boarding.

"Yes, I remember the dinner party with the Winston's. Just reschedule it, all right?

Oooh. . . he was going to pay for this later. The voice on the other end of the line raised a decibel or two in pitch.

"Look. . . I have no choice. These people, they're desperate. They need someone to look after them. If I don't go. . . I just am concerned what might happen."

The private plane stopped and the doorway opened. A ramp serviceman eyed the detective impatiently, eager to get the stairs nestled against the plane to get it loaded before he got any wetter.

"Okay, okay. I understand. Yes, we're going to this area around Pandora, Wyoming. Corporate jet, then a chopper when we arrive. It'll be a couple of nights, tops. Don't worry, hon. I'm always careful. Love you. See you soon."

He punched the button to disconnect and tossed the phone over to Steven Montgomery, who seemed scarcely ruffled by the rain and the wind. The CEO tucked the phone into the pocket of his black trenchcoat and smiled grimly. The serviceman took the opportunity to push the steps up to the plane to allow its passengers to board.

"I sincerely appreciate your taking the time, Detective. I am certain it will not be a wasted effort. I hope we shall be back soon enough for me to offer your wife my deepest apologies for the disruption of her plans."

Pendleton just shrugged. "She's a cop's wife. She understands."

Steven began climbing up the steps and Pendleton, with his shorter legs, had to move quickly to keep up. The missing boy's father stepped over the threshold and turned to the detective with a small frown. "I certainly hope she will never have to.''

Detective Pendleton climbed in behind him, where six others waited. The door to the jet was pulled shut, and in a great roar of wind and rushing air, the plane lifted up, headed for the mountains.

* * *

The teenager seemed tired, but he also looked quite pleased with himself as he fell into line beside the marching column. He was short, with light brown hair and watery blue eyes. His clothes were plain and scruffy from travel. But he carried a well-made sword and shield, and his posture implied that he knew how to use them.

He fell in beside a man in the column carrying a heavy quarterstaff. "Um, hello," he said cheerfully. "Do you know when we're planning to stop for the evening? I imagine we need to fortify, right? In case we're attacked tonight?"

The other eyed him from under a thick mop of dark brown hair. "In case we're attacked? You're joking, right? There hasn't been a night when we haven't been attacked. I hope you know how to use that pigsticker."

The swordsman refused to take the bait, instead smiling and extending his hand. "The name's Timothy. Sir Timothy. Eventually, you know, if everything works out well. What's yours?"

The other shook the hand, albeit reluctantly. "If everything works out well, we won't be dead. Or not dead, as the case may be. I'm Lorne. Hedge-mage for hire. And to answer your question, we'll camp in just a couple of hours. We dig in, hold our ground, and fend them off as best we can at night. We sleep in the morning, then march in the afternoon. It's about the slowest way to get from here to there that I ever heard of, but that's what Captain Shineypants insists on."

"You really call him that?" Timothy asked incredulously.

"We go way back," the Hedge-Mage replied. He looked up toward the front of the winding column. "Though I'm happy staying right back here. They've got some serious magics going on up there. And they get the brunt of all the attacks. I'd like to keep my skin intact."

"Why are you here, then? I mean. . . " Timothy trailed off, then added in a softer tone of voice, "The undead got my dad, you know. He was a great knight, or at least a very good one, but he couldn't beat them back forever. I need to stop them. But why are you here?"

Lorne shrugged. "I owe them a few favors." He gestured towards the front of the line. "It seemed like a good time to pay them back. I've got a little power. . . hexes mostly. It might help." The fatalistic note crept back into his voice as he added, "Besides, the alternative doesn't strike me as particularly pleasant either."

"Fair enough," Timothy answered, and they marched in silence for a short while.

A murmuring started among the others around him, and Timothy looked up. Above the treetops, he could see, spiraling lower and lower, five giant eagles. On each of their backs was mounted a single knight, dressed in bright chain mail and carrying a lance. They landed out of sight, to the front of the marching column.

"Who are they," asked Timothy, clearly impressed.

Lorne glanced up. "Them? Those are the Celestial Knights. They joined the army about five days ago. Same day Strongheart did. They brought word that the divisions from Tardos and Turad were coming. They're rounding up allies and looking for Venger. Supposedly. If they can ever see past their own egos."

Timothy's pace quickened. "I want to meet them. I wonder what they are saying."

"We'll find out soon enough."

* * *

Gorgeous panoramas of aspen-clad mountainsides shimmering in gold and silver spread out below them, but the four huddled in the small, noisy aircraft had no eye for the view. Instead, they watched the green, wavering line across the digital screen that was nestled between them, looking for any sign of change.

A voice nearly drowned by the blades of the helicopter came over the cockpit radio from the pilot's seat. "We've completed this pass to ten miles north of Pandora Wyoming, sir. We have enough fuel for fifteen before we turn around. Keep going or try a different direction?"

Steven Montgomery looked at Ethan Curry. The professor was huddled protectively over his machine, frowning. "What do you say?"

Ethan adjusted a dial a hair and studied the screen again. "Keep going. I keep thinking. . . "

"There," pointed Amanda Grayson with a slim, worn finger. "The light thingie went up right there."

"Keep going. Tell me when we reach thirteen miles." Steven spoke into his headset and tapped the radio off again. "You saw something, Amanda?"

With a voice unsteady with hope, Amanda said, "I swear. On the very edge of the screen."

"I'll re-center. Maybe the helicopter is making a difference." Ethan turned a second dial. Almost immediately, a clear pulse danced in the center of the tiny screen.

"We've got it! One more pass this direction, and we'll be able to figure out where to go!"

Steven signaled to the pilot to continue one more pass. Dan turned away from the muon detector to peer out of the helicopter window. "There's some dirt roads. They don't look like much, but they could have moved some sort of vehicle."

As the helicopter came around, all four parents held their breath. The muon detector pulsed again, more strongly than before. Ethan frowned as he ran some quick mental calculations. "At that rate and range, given our elevation, I'd say we're less than a half kilometer to the southeast of the source."

Eric's father did not bother to ask the others. He signaled to the pilot to set down at the nearest safe spot.

A few minutes later, the four parents stood amid the autumn wildflowers and glittering rocks of the Wind River Mountain Range in the western Rockies. The rush of air from the helicopter's blades flattened the grasses and blew up a cloud of golden dust. It concealed the puffy clouds blowing across the blue sky. As the roar of the helicopter faded, the four parents looked at one another.

"My pilot will return with the others as soon as he refuels," Steven said, scanning the empty hills.

"We can aim for that small track once they arrive. It could lead us somewhere," answered Dan.

Ethan shut down the muon detector to save energy. "And then," he said, "I suppose we shall see what we shall see."

* * *

"Hello, Hank."

It was her voice again. Like he had heard it a thousand times in his dreams. Hank kept his eyes tightly shut, unwilling to let the tiniest hint of the dream pass if he could cling to it a moment longer. Already, he could hear the sounds of people moving in the campsite. Soon it would be time to leave.

If he was still, would the dream return? He could almost catch the grass and roses scent of her, like a summer garden after a storm. He'd sought so hard for peace, for understanding within himself, but this one part of his soul eluded him.

Or was hidden from him. He didn't fault Presto for not being willing to watch after her for him. She had gone down some dark road and he could not follow or save her. His friend understood the knowledge would bring him nothing but grief.

Part of him might never forgive the mage anyway.

"A legion has arrived from Zinn, Sir Strongheart. They've been sent by King Lawrence." Hank could hear the solider, though it was muffled by the walls of the tent.

A rich, deep voice responded, "Send the commander at once to Captain Eric, and make sure their horses are provided with first access to the wells and grazing."

He would have to get up soon. Meet with the leaders of the Zinn forces. Be, once again, eternally surprised and grateful that allies won a lifetime ago were coming out of nowhere for this final effort.

No. Better to stay here, in the dark. The smell of her still lingered, though the dream had faded. It was almost as if. . . .

"Hello, Hank."

His eyes flared open. He was awake. He wasn't dreaming. This was real.

She was there.

Sheila was back!

* * *

'_It is so strange to see them again. To see them like this.'_

Sheila sat on the worn corner of a rug that lined the floor of Eric's command tent, her forearms resting on her knees drawn up before her. It had been a long road to get to this point. She made it out of the desert with only a few close calls, and reached the borders of the kingdom of Zinn. She was able to lose her pursuit when she reached King Lawrence's lands, and made her way to the palace to ask Lawrence for help and supplies. There she had learned that, though Dungeonmaster was no where to be found, the Young Ones were raising an army to strike against Venger for a final time, and end the undead blight.

The idea of Hank and Eric and Diana leading an army was nearly inconceivable, but it also didn't seem at all Dungeonmaster's style. However, knowing her friends, Sheila could definitely believe it. It took very little urging to convince King Lawrence to muster his own troops in the realm's defense. With his army, and, the King told her, his tenderest affections, she rode out to meet her friends.

The flap of the tent lifted, and a tall soldier with dark eyes and hair and a thin beard entered, wearing decent but battered chainmail and carrying a sword at his hip. Youthful arrogance had given way to the casual presumptions of command. Crowding in behind him, a statuesque tattooed woman with worn leather armor. Sheila could barely recognize them, but before she knew it she was pulled up into the woman's warm embrace. The man hugged her and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and there were tears and laughter both.

Hank slipped under the tent flap and stood in the entranceway, quietly smiling. "Presto was still asleep. He'll be here in a few minutes."

Sheila pulled herself from Diana's hug. "Then he's alive. Thank God. I was afraid. . . I'd heard about witchfever."

Diana gave her hand a last squeeze before letting her go. "How did you know about that?" she asked curiously. Hank shook his head slightly at her, and she fell silent.

Sheila shifted uncomfortably and didn't answer.

Eric wrapped an arm around Diana's shoulders. If it was not obvious before, their relationship was clear now. He gave a lop-sided grin. "Who hasn't heard about the new mage, these days? From a Dragon's eye view, he's got this camp lit up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree every night. I bet we can be seen from outer space." He shot a quick glance to the entrance of the tent.

Diana shook his arm free. "He's right. You're the one we really want to know about. None of us found out what happened after you left, not really, and we've been frantic with worry about you. Were you really with King Ramoud? How did you get there from Standwell? We want to know everything about what happened."

"No we don't."

A quiet, exhausted voice cut cold across the line of Diana's questions, much to Sheila's relief.

Hank had moved aside to admit a man dressed in white robes, his white hood pulled over auburn hair. '_Presto.'_ Of them all, he had changed the least in appearance. The gap-toothed smile was gone, but he was clean-shaven and the glasses were the same. Beyond appearance, though, the air around him seemed ready to crackle with lightening. The energy was at odds with the weariness in his voice. He did not approach her.

Sheila looked into his eyes_. 'Oh, God. He knows_.' She could not say how, but she was sure it was true. She turned away, shame suddenly filling her once more.

The difficult moment dragged out until Hank stepped in. "Presto's right. We're just glad you're back and you made it here. When we figured out that it was Venger sending the undead to kill us, we were afraid it was only a matter of time before they'd come after you too. Now you're here. We're here. Maybe this is the way it was always supposed to be."

Sheila turned back towards the others at Hank's touch. "I am sorry I left. After Bobby. . . " Sheila pursed her lips. It had been so long, but it still felt like a cold stone in her heart every time she thought of her brother. ". . . after he died, I couldn't. . . ." She took a deep breath and straightened. "It was a mistake. But I learned a lot, and I'm here now. And I'm ready to do whatever we have to do so that the rest of the Realm can live in peace."

Presto lifted his hand as if to interject, but he let it fall again without a word.

Eric nodded briskly. "Right. If we're going to get a nice little colony going and start churning out the anklebiters, we better take care of the overwhelming evil first."

"Overwhelming, yes. But it can be overwhelmed." Stepping out from behind a small winebarrel and into the very center of the tent came the wizened figure of a small man clad in scarlet robes.

"Dungeonmaster!" exclaimed Diana, expressing their mutual startlement at the unexpected appearance.

Apparently, the intervening years had not been kind to the benevolent protector of the Realm. His skin was brown and stretched taut against his bones, leaving him the appearance of a mummified child. His eyes were hollow and his expression resigned. Even the elegant crimson robes he wore were torn at the edges and dirty. Sheila wanted to recoil from him.

But his voice was as rich and eloquent as ever. She squared her shoulders and faced him. "More riddles, Dungeonmaster?"

The old man raised his hands in defeat. "No riddles. Only hope. I have been in the Cave of Visions for many years now, and I have seen where Venger resides. And I still know much lore of this Realm that I offer for your assistance. Venger and his evil must be stopped."

"So you're here to help us?" asked Hank, shooting a glance at Eric and Diana. "You must really want to stop him to show up now, and like this."

"Yes," answered The Dungeon Master. He let his arms fall.

Diana nodded slightly back at Hank. "And you think that we are the only ones who can do it."

"Yes," answered Dungeonmaster again.

Eric stepped in. "Very well. You can help us by answering all our questions as completely and clearly as possible. No riddles. No hints. Just tell us the truth about what we want to know when we want to know it. Do you swear you'll do that? Otherwise, you are more trouble than you are worth, Dungeonmaster. Otherwise, we can't trust you."

Dungeonmaster grimaced with reluctance, but after a moment, he answered, "Very well. I swear I'll tell you everything you want to know."

There had been a time in her life when Sheila would have given anything for just a few straight answers from this man. And another time, a few years later, where she would have done anything just for the assurance of never seeing him or being a part of his agenda again. But now, to see him here, like this. . . all Sheila could summon in her heart for him now was pity. She sighed and pulled up a long, flat wooden box, moving it into position behind Dungeonmaster. She helped the old man to settle down upon it without saying a word.

Dungeonmaster sagged.

Hank pulled the doorway of the tent shut and all five Young Ones settled on the ground.

Eric didn't hesitate. "So who is Venger? What's the deal between you two anyway?"

Duneonmaster's wrinkled face looked pained. "Venger is, as I have always said, a force of evil. He is also my son."

Sheila looked at the others to see similar shock to her own on all their faces. "What happened?" she asked quietly.

"I was a court magician, once, long ago, associated with a great king and queen in a kingdom long gone in this age. I had skill, and power, and," he hesitated, "the lusts and desires of any man. The Queen Daarshiva. . . shared those desires. But she became with child. My child. Because she was married, because of what that would mean to the inheritance of the kingdom, we knew no one must ever know."

Dungeonmaster rubbed the white jewel he wore around his neck and continued. "Unfortunately, Venger quickly made clear that he shared the gift of greater magic. As an untrained wizard, he was not welcome in the palace and no longer eligible as heir to the throne. The King and Queen made his younger sister, Kareena, and their true-born, heir. They gave the boy to me for training, safely far away from the palace.

The old man's face fell. "The boy always blamed me for taking him from the palace. And for, perhaps, my own fear of him. His power was greater than mine. He would not listen to me. To him, I was but another courtier in his father's court.

Dungeonmaster turned his face to look directly at Presto. "No matter how great a wizard's skill, there always is a point where what they desire lies beyond them. Others, beings from the realms that encircle our own, lie in wait for these moments, waiting for a tool of sufficient power to open themselves to more. Venger was one such as this. He wanted to prove himself worthy of being heir by defeating Tiamat. I tried to beg him not to go. In the end, I told him that I was his father, in the hopes that would convince him he must not go against her. But my words only made it worse. He refused to believe. But her power was beyond his own. In that moment, he attracted the attention of one you already know, bright as any box of balefire. He bargained. A deal was struck of some sort. And he became as you knew him.

Presto's face was carefully guarded. Sheila could not read his expression.

"He who must not be named," Hank offered, his own blue eyes watching Presto and Dungeonmaster both.

"Yes," answered Dungeonmaster plainly.

"What did you do then," asked Diana coldly.

Dungonmaster closed his eyes wearily. "It is ever thus. Whenever the avatar of one plane arises in this world, so shall another rise to defeat them, and so the Realm is kept safe. I was not quite powerful enough to attract the attention of the celestial spheres through raw display. But when Venger made his bargain, I had no choice. I cast a spell to summon the aid of the forces of light and offered myself to them as their tool. To make myself the dungeon master that would keep Venger and his ally contained and neutralized in this world. They gave me power. I used it."

"Why did you bring us here," Sheila asked, feeling the small knot of anger start to tighten once again.

"Because I was tired. Because my power was fading. Because it was easier than the endless fighting. Because fighting this way drew less attention from the powers of the other realms. Because the previous groups I had summoned had all failed to defeat Venger, so I hoped that by casting my net further afield, I would find a group more able to stop him. And so I did."

She had waited years to hear that confession, but it didn't seem to help as much as she had once hoped it would.

After a long silence, Eric spoke again. "Very well. Where is Venger? How can we defeat him?"

Dungeonmaster looked relieved and turned away from Presto to face Eric. "You have been correct that Venger holds the Crystal skull of Greymalin. He has used the blackest of magics to turn himself into a lich, a being of the undead, and placed his soul within the skull in order to awaken and command all of the undead within the realm."

He stood and gestured to the northwest. "You can find him the Mountain of the DragonQueen, to the northwest, four days journey from here. To stop him, you must destroy the skull. Only the power of the Barbarian's club can do that, however."

Sheila's shoulders sagged. "It's impossible, then."

The old man shook his head. "Venger found and claimed the club and used its power to fuel his transformation. You can find it near where the skull lies."

He looked from one to the other of them. "I am sorry I cannot offer you more. The way is guarded by two dragons, slaves to the shackles of death. Tiamat herself is there, but bound with chains of vast power that even she cannot break. Venger will no doubt put all of his forces between you and the skull. I will do all I can to fight Venger, but my power is weak. I can keep him at a standstill, at best. I will not be able to help you."

Presto swallowed nervously. "Great."

Dungeonmaster stepped away from the bench, heading for the entrance of the tent. Diana lunged forward to stop him. "Oh no you don't. . . .not this time."

But before she could put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, he had vanished and was gone.

* * *

Golden haze shimmered in the afternoon sun, dust still lingering in the air from the helicopter's second ascent. Pendleton eyed the scenery. Broken fence lines, torn barb wire, boulders, and copses of quivering aspens stood around, but there seemed little to indicate the area was anything more than an abandoned mining road, used by the occasional hunter or rockhound and no one else.

_'But. . .__'_

He was a detective. He'd been trained to catch minute details that could break a difficult case, and, right now, despite his skepticism about this whole venture, his instincts were telling him that this scene had been staged.

"The road is too clear. You'd expect a rockfall from that road cut or something, but there's nothing. And there's no animals. . . not even a bird." He shook his head. "I don't know what you think you've got, but there is something unusual about this place."

The Curry's, Ethan and Eileen, lugged the muon detector between them. Ethan waved something that looked like a microphone in the air. A steady beat pulsed on the unit's small screen. "We're getting a stronger signal in that direction," he pointed, through a cleared path between some trees that seemed to go right up an outcropping of stone in the side of the mountain.

"I found a tire track," Margaret called, walking a little ahead of the other couple. Her husband, Dan, was a few steps ahead of her, leading the way.

Pendleton went over to take a look. "It's heading for the outcropping," he noted, surprised.

Steven walked up behind him to glance over his shoulder at the track. "Humm," he said. Beside him, Amanda stood, her eyes scanning the horizon looking for any other sign of habitation.

A young man, powerfully built, who he had seen only rarely in the last couple of years moved past him, going forward to join Dan in the lead. Bobby O'Brien, whose return had completely changed the direction of this investigation, shook his head at them. "Too bad they didn't roll out the welcome mat."

Ten more minutes of walking led them to the exposed outcrop. Glittering schist alternated in layers with black and white marbles. And there, concealed from the road by tough thorny bushes, was the source of the tiretracks. Part of the stone was wide open, leading to what seemed like a garage in the very side of the mountain. Two silver jeeps were parked inside.

"Then again," said Bobby softly as the parents and Detective Pendleton looked at one another, "Maybe they did."

A partially open door led from the motor pool further into the mountain. Pendleton turned to the parents, who seemed uncertain about what to do next. "We have no warrant, probable cause, nothing. This could be anybody."

There was the sound of laughter coming from the doorway. "Damn! I had a pair of Jacks, too!"

"Pay up, Lacombe."

Bobby pushed past the detective, straightening to his full height, his powerful shoulders rippling under the white tank-top he wore. "Stay here. I'll take care of this."

Bobby's mother reached out a hand to stop him. "Bobby, they could have guns. You don't know. . . " She didn't dare raise her voice, though, for fear of discovery.

But Bobby was halfway across the garage, picking up a heavy tire-iron from the floor. Pendleton pulled his gun.

Before he could catch up, Bobby turned to them and said softly, "Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

He darted in the open door and closed it quickly behind him.

There was the sound of shouts, followed by a muffled gunshot.

Pendleton rushed forward to pull the boy back, or assist him, anything to prevent the young man from getting killed. But when he pushed on the door, he found it was electronically locked, smooth on this side without even a keypad for entry.

From the other side of the doorway, the parents could hear curses and loud thumping noises. After only a moment or two, it was quiet.

A very long minute later, the door slid open to reveal Bobby, a crooked smirk on his face and the tire-iron resting easily over his shoulder. Five guards lay groaning against the wall, each bound and gagged tightly with duct tape. Two guns and a knife had been tossed into the opposite corner. Pendleton went to check the men to make sure none were too badly damaged.

Dan raised an eyebrow. "Son, you know we don't approve of violence."

Bobby just shrugged. "I had a misspent youth. Let's go."

* * *

"Egads, Lorne! There's no end to them. Why haven't they retreated with daybreak?" Timothy huffed to the hedgemage after cutting the legs from under yet another set of animated skeletal remains.

"You call this day?" Lorne grunted back, before muttering the words to a minor hex that caused one skeleton's feet to become entangled in the ribcage of one of its fallen fellows. A quick crack from Lorne's staff finished it off.

Timothy glanced up. The hedgemage had a point. The sky overhead roiled a sickly greenish-black, a color he had never seen save in his darkest nightmares. It blocked the light of all four suns. "A spell of Venger's," he concluded. "We are less than a day's journey from the Mountain of the Dragonqueen. He must seek to stop us." He hacked the legs and arms from the undead he had taken down, just to be sure it wouldn't get up again.

"Or kill us." Lorne sounded gloomy.

A clattering suit of armor stomped past, swinging a sword wildly. Timothy raised his weapon, ready to engage it, but his fellow soldier held him back. "Don't. It's an automaton. Melchior's work."

Timothy used the respite of the automaton's passage to catch his breath. "It's not bad. . . but why isn't he making," he waved a hand vaguely in the air, "fireballs or something? Something more useful. Like him?" He gestured towards the inferno that was the source of their light during the battle. The fighting was more pitched there, and both men could hear the sound of weapons, the cries of the wounded and infrequent explosions. Soldiers moved like shadow puppets in front of the source of the light, their features hardly discernable.

Lorne took a swig from a flask around his neck. "You don't know anything about magic, do you?" He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Every magician has a knack. I'm just a hedge mage. I cast hexes. Minor enchantments. Melchior, from what I'm told, he's a full wizard. Enchantment and transmutation. That up there is raw elemental forces, dragged from the outer planes. Not very subtle." His eyes narrowed. "Though I wouldn't be surprised if he had another trick or two."

Another group of five zombies descended on them. Timothy waded into the fray. "Gah. I don't think I want to know. As long as we get to the mountain today, I don't care."

Lorne didn't answer, too busy trying to keep himself alive to respond.

...

The din had gone on so long that the sudden silence to the south was terrifying. Timothy had been trying to tug his sword free from a zombie's back the moment that silence fell. Behind him, he could still hear the sounds of battle, but the attacks from the southeast had stopped. The last remaining corpses had been cut down, and the soldiers, most wearing the silver star of Turad, watched the woods, waiting for the next attack.

However, instead of another battalion of zombies or squad of skeletons, a single figure drifted from the forest.

The form was female, translucent white, a gray miasma welling from the ground around her feet. She was not tall, and wore a combination of leather and chain. Her hair, all narrow braids, coiled around her head like the snakes of a medusa. Timothy watched as one of the Turadians stepped forward to engage her. She did not even stop. She moved smoothly around his sword and laid a single, misty hand upon his shoulder. The man fell to the ground, stricken.

Seeing that, some of the others backed quickly away from her. Her mere presence was more frightening than the legions of death that had preceded her. The young would-be knight refused to let the fear take him. Palms sweating, he held his sword in both hands and challenged the ghostly warrior. "Halt!"

The ghost stopped and turned to face him. Her lips did not move as she answered him, "The SoulSong commands me. I have come to kill the enemies of my Lord. You are one to whom he has chosen to show mercy."

Lorne, cursing under his breath, stepped up beside Timothy. "Lucky you," he muttered.

Timothy swallowed. "That was a long time ago. I won't let you pass."

"Very well." Her voice was cold and hollow. "You may die also." She reached her hand towards him.

"Oh no he won't!" A blur of brown and silver landed with a thump between Timothy and the spirit before him. The eyes of both widened with recognition. The Child of the Stargazer. The Knight of Coulone. Co-Leader of the Red Blades. The Turad soldiers nearby who had not fled from the ghost's presence cheered. Timothy quickly scrambled backwards to give the two warriors, flesh and spirit, room to fight while he tried to find his opening.

There was none. The moment Diana thrust with her spear, the spirit moved aside, deftly avoiding the blow. She reached out to touch the acrobat, but Diana spun out of the way.

Timothy heard a quick chanting, a hex from Lorne that caused a gust of heavy smoke to blow into the spirit's face, obscuring its view for a second. Diana used the opportunity to get further back, putting the point of the spear between her and her former mentor. When the smoke cleared, both the ghost and the warrior moved warily around each other.

Diana's eyes softened. "Oh, Xalen. . . .what happened to you?"

The spirit was wary of Diana's spear, circling her as she sought an opening. "I must kill the enemies of Venger. The SoulSong commands."

Diana made a feint, causing the spirit to duck under the spear's blade, but the pair continued circling. "Can you remember me? You marked me with many of these tattoos. You taught me everything I know. Are you still in there?"

Xalen lashed out again, the spear keeping her at arm's length. She did not answer. But Timothy could see a single tear trickle down the spirit's cheek.

Diana saw it too. "Xalen. . . you don't have to do this. You can go beyond, and find peace." Her voice trembled. "I was wrong, Xalen. I judged you. I thought you were greedy and mercenary so I left you. Now look at me! I'm leading a whole company of mercenaries." She stepped warily over a smoking corpse. "But you were just teaching me the best you could. I shouldn't have been so ungrateful."

A second tear welled up from the spirit's empty black eyes, but that did not stop her. She suddenly leapt into the air, flipping over to land behind Diana. The ghost reached out to touch the Acrobat's shoulder.

Diana tumbled away just in time. "Resist him, Xalen. Free yourself!" she pleaded as she climbed to her feet, keeping her guard with the spear.

The ghost gave a dreadful wail, "I can't!!!" She lunged for Diana, stretching out with both hands to put just one finger upon her

Diana scrambled backwards and brought her spear around to contact her former mentor. Electric blue lightening crackled from its tip, enveloping the spirit which writhed, tortured on its end. She screamed with agony as she faded into nothingness.

"I'm sorry," Diana whispered as the hissing lightening faded away, leaving only the smell of ozone and death.

Once the ghost was gone, Timothy stepped towards Diana, trying to come up with something, anything, that he could say to her. But she just turned away from him and walked back towards the center of the fighting, trailing the butt of the spear on the ground behind her.


	17. Victory

**Chapter 17: Victory**

"Here, Presto. You need to eat something." Sheila offered a plate of bread and stew to her friend.

Presto sat on the broad stone step that marked the beginning of the long climb up the entrance to the Lair of the DragonQueen. That entrance was hidden from view, shrouded in unnatural darkness and smoke, but there seemed to be no sounds from above. For the moment at least. The mage's hood was drawn over his head and his face was buried in his hands. For once, his glasses sat on the stone step next to him.

Down on the battlefield, a temporary quiet had also fallen. The latest waves of undead had been defeated. There was no doubt Venger's army would attack again soon, but first they would have to gather their strength. That would take time. Men were binding their wounds, eating, resting as they could, and preparing the bodies of their own dead to make sure they did not join the combat again, this time as enemies.

Presto shifted to pull away from Sheila, but after a moment, he held out his hand. "Thank you," he answered quietly. His voice was hoarse.

Sheila passed him the plate. He put it down next to him, then covered his eyes with his hands again. Unwilling to leave him like that, she sat next to him and picked up his glasses. They were sooty with smoke. She pulled a handkerchief from her beltpouch and began polishing them for him. "You must be exhausted. All those spells. I've never seen anything like that."

Presto didn't look up.

Sheila sighed, and in a soft voice, she said, "Presto, I'm sorry. About what I did. For leaving. And the stealing. . . and everything else. I know you know about it. Please don't hate me."

Presto's shoulders shook and Sheila could hear a muffled sound. At first she thought her friend was sobbing, but after a moment, she realized his shoulders were shaking with quiet laughter. Finally Presto looked up. His face was ashen with weariness, but he wore a faint smile. He reached out his hand blindly and she set his glasses in his palm. He dipped his head to put them on and when he looked up, the smile was gone, leaving only an expression of sympathy.

"What's so funny," Sheila asked defensively.

"It's not funny. It's. . . ." He shook his head. "So much has happened. We have all done things we regret. Diana and Eric, even Hank. . . .they've killed people. Not because they wanted to, but they did. And me? You haven't heard about the rogue wizard who blinded seven hundred soldiers? That was me. I may not have killed anyone, but there are a lot of people who will never see again because of what I did to them." His voice cracked, reminding her of their younger traveling days when that was a routine occurrence.

Sheila's eyes widened. "So, you were the Basilisk? I didn't know."

Presto looked at her with confusion. "What?"

"I'm sorry. . . that's just a rumor I heard. Presto, I don't know what happened, but it wasn't your fault, I'm sure of that."

Presto took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "It was, Sheila. It was everything I had to not kill them all. So, you know. . . the stealing and stuff. . . we're just trying to survive somehow." He looked down for a moment, and then said in a softer, sadder tone of voice, "It's just. . . ." His voice trailed off.

"It's just what?" Sheila asked carefully, noting the change in tone.

"It's just. . . " Presto said softly, "I, um. . . I always thought we'd have each other here. That even if we parted ways we'd still be friends." He rubbed his shoulder as though it pained him. "And. . . .then I learned that wasn't necessarily the case."

Sheila's heart clenched. "Then you really were there. You weren't just an illusion."

Presto rested his forehead on his hands again, hiding his face from her. He didn't answer.

Part of Sheila wanted to run away and hide, to avoid an answer. Part of her even wanted to lash out at him, angry that he didn't understand everything she had been going through at that part of her life. Instead, she reached out and took his arm, moving it so Presto would look her in the eyes.

"Presto. We've been together in this realm so long, that you're right. We really aren't still friends. We're family. Maybe the only family we have left. What I said was wrong. You and Hank and Eric and Diana, you guys are everything to me. I think it took Ramoud to show me what that really means. No matter what happens, or where we go, there is nothing in this Realm or any other that can change that."

She pulled him towards her and wrapped him in her arms in a warm hug. "Bobby's not my only little brother," she whispered as she held him tight.

...

After she had left, Presto continued to sit on the stone step. She'd made him eat, but the food was like ashes in his mouth. He was so tired he could barely think. The magic that flowed so freely through him had become muddied with exhaustion, but every time he tried to rest, the nightmares caught up with him.

There were so many dead. Friends he had traveled with for the last few weeks, hacked to pieces by the endless streams of zombies. Others who ventured too near the fires he was trying to wield, living people caught in the flames and burned. The menacing darkness that hung in the sooty air, and the evil of Venger that hung behind it. Dungeonmaster's face as he spoke of Venger's fall. Those things haunted his dreams and nagged at him as he tried to sleep with endless questions.

He watched the thief as she approached the Command tent. '_Family. A sister.' _She disappeared into the tent.

He tried to muster up the strength to follow her, but he was too exhausted to care anymore about what the others planned. Instead he managed to rise and stumble to his own small tent nearby. '_The Basilisk,' _he thought as he collapsed onto the blanket. '_I don't know if I can do this any more.'_

* * *

Eric was pacing the floor of the command tent as Sheila entered. "Is Presto coming?" he asked briskly.

She stopped just inside the tent flap and look back towards the young mage. He had gotten up, but he was moving towards his own tent, not following her. "I don't think so. He looked so tired. I told him he should get some more rest."

Eric nodded and resumed his pacing. "Good. Whatever we do, we can't count on Presto for a solution."

From a chair in the corner, Captain Durnst chuckled. "It would seem to me that an extremely powerful Magus would be just the sort of useful asset I'd want to have on hand when going up against an army of the arisen, two undead dragons, and the Lich Lord himself."

Hank, who sat on the ground near the entrance to the tent with his longbow across his knees, answered, "That's why we can't count on him."

Eric, still all restless energy, pounced on the answer. "Exactly. This sky, this darkness, we've seen this before. I know Big Ugly is up there, watching all this. We don't want to draw His attention to Presto any more than necessary. We don't dare." He had felt the One who could not be Named's eyes on him before, like being covered in a thousand black-widow spiders, each formed out of something small and evil inside your own spirit. He shuddered at the memory.

Before anyone could answer, the tent flap was swept open, and Diana stepped in. She was winded and shaking even in the safety of the tent. Eric hurried to her and wrapped his cloak around her shoulders.

"Diana. . . are you okay? What happened? Where were you?" Hank and Sheila also moved towards Diana, filled with concern, but she waved them back, settling for the comfort of Eric's arm around her shoulder and his warm red-wool cloak.

Diana took a deep breath and stepped away from Eric. "I've been scouting," she answered the questions. "We needed to know what we're facing."

"How does it look?" Eric asked.

"Not good. The entrance is wide enough for the dragons to enter and leave. The stairs are open and exposed. Any force of men you send up are sitting ducks, and if you went in darkness you'd need torches to not fall. The dragons never sleep or leave. They're dead. . . they don't need to. I know they have a breath weapon. I watched a bat turn to dust as it flew past the thing's mouth. I don't think anyone could sneak past them. Even you, Sheila. Their cavern is well lit."

At each word, Eric's heart fell a little more. "Is there any good news?"

Diana considered for a moment. "Maybe. There weren't any other guards except the dragons. Nothing else is really needed. I know that Venger is there. . . I heard him shout for Shadow Demon. If we could distract the dragons, then Sheila might be able to slip past them." She paused and looked at the Thief , "If you think you can make it in without your cloak, I mean."

Sheila smiled wanly. "I can."

Eric threw up his hands dramatically. "So we just have to distract a couple of undead, death-breathing skeletal dragons without all dying ourselves, for long enough to get Sheila in there."

Everyone fell silent.

Finally, Diana crossed her arms. "I'm not ready to give up yet."

Hank nodded slowly. "We just have to come up with something. Donovan is on his way to King Lawrence with word of what Dungeonmaster told us about Venger. Melchior. . . he's almost out of pots and pans he can animate and is wearing out fast. What have we got to work with here?"

Sheila gave a rueful shrug. "I don't think I can help much. Not unless you want to cure a disease or find your true love. I don't think that would help."

Diana raised an eyebrow. "Okay, I've got to ask. Find your true love?"

Sheila blushed. "A potion Aiyesha gave me. It's from a flower called the Maid of Tusinda. She. . . um. . . wasn't specific as to how it worked."

Eric humphed, "What we need is a potion of 'instant dragon-slaying.' Oh well. Diana. . . what does that spear actually do?"

...

As Eric and Diana discussed their options, Hank became aware of a faintly hummed tune coming from the corner. He turned. Captain Durnst was rubbing his chin thoughtfully and humming faint scraps of song.

"Captain," Hank asked. "You have a thought?"

Durnst straightened. "Perhaps."

The others turned to look at him.

He continued. "Once, long ago, Dungeonmaster sent us to Tardos Keep to protect 'the Maid of Tusinda'. We thought it was a person we met. We helped fend off an attack by Venger. But your words put me to mind of a song I heard sung there. I was trying to recall the words." He shook his head. "If he instead meant a flower of that name, I can think of only one blossom that grows in Tardos that had to be protected from Venger."

Sheila's eyes widened. "Dragonsbane!" She pulled the bottle from her pouch and opened it. The potion shimmered faintly silver in the dimness of the tent. "I knew those berries looked familiar, but I couldn't remember where I'd seen them. But there's so little of it. And we don't even know if the potion will have the same effect as the whole plant, if it even is the same thing."

Hank gave a mysterious smile. "Here. Let me see it."

She passed it to him.

He took an empty wooden soup bowl from dinner and wiped it clean with a polishing rag. Then he sat cross-legged on the ground, set the bowl before him, and carefully poured the potion into it. He closed his eyes.

In his mind, Hank shut out the distractions, the confused expressions of his friends. Instead, he focused on the crushed essence of the plant that lay, undistilled, in the water before him. Within each tiny drop of that plant's essence lay the secret to the whole. Long ago, in a different world, he would have called it DNA, but here, he knew, it was just one step further along the wheel of life for this plant, just as it was for any other. Push the wheel, just a little, and. . .

The water in the bowl flashed once, with the glow of warm sunshine amidst green leaves. Hank reached into the water and pulled out a tiny seed.

Eric, Diana, and Sheila looked at him with wide-eyed astonishment. "How did you. . . ?" Eric began to ask.

Hank shook his head. "I've been working with an old friend of ours. She's tried to show me how the Realm really works."

Sheila looked at him curiously. "What old friend?"

Hank looked up at her. "Our oldest. Uni." He was amused by the confusion on his friends' faces, but knew explanations would have to wait.

Diana crouched to take a look at the seed. "That's amazing. But what can we do with a seed?"

Hank smiled. "That's easier."

He rolled back the corner of a rug to expose the bare earth beneath. With the tip of his knife he dug a small hole into the ground, and in the ground he planted the seed. He opened his waterskin and poured the water on the buried seed, and knelt before it. As he felt the tiny seed burst a root from its shell and plunge it into the harsh, uninviting ground, he allowed a glimmer of hope into his heart. After a few minutes of focused meditation, he looked up at the others. "Now we wait. I'll watch it. It's responding very well. I think I can have at least as much as we had when we faced Demodragon by nightfall."

Eric seized the chance. "That's great! I don't know when you changed from Ranger to Gardener, but I'll take it. If it doesn't work on undead dragons, we're no worse than we were before, and there's always a chance that it will help. Sheila, in any event, Hank, Diana, and I will be the ones who take on the dragons. We'll distract them. You get in there and find the skull. Feel free to crush it there if you can. . . the sooner Venger goes the better. But if you can't, come out, and bring the skull and Bobby's club. We'll figure out what to do from there. If we're not there, get them both to Presto and Strongheart. They'll figure something out."

Sheila nodded.

...

The others left shortly after, to try to catch a little rest before the evening's ascent up the mountain. Hank stayed in the command tent, watching, encouraging, the Maid of Tusinda, the Dragonsbane. Slowly, it arched its slender stem from the earth. It sprouted first two, then four, then many narrow dark green leaves, each a tiny testimony to the power of hope.

* * *

Detective Pendleton could think of at least five different regulations he was ignoring now. Breaking and entering and assault could probably be tacked on for the criminal charges. Officially, he had no choice but to accompany this party of confused and potentially psychologically disturbed civilians. Unofficially, he had to admit that the whole place had him pretty damned curious.

Beyond the guardroom, the complex opened up in a long maze of institutional gray walls and plain offices. Banks of filling cabinets were locked, but the few papers they'd found addressed topics as diverse as mining rights and geological maps, black holes and the space-time continuum (it took Dr. Curry to understand that one), and government lobbying. It was difficult to pick a common thread amongst them.

Along one corridor, they passed four double-wide doors marked with caution signs and hazardous material markers. When they opened one of the doors a crack, they caught a glimpse of an advanced fighter jet. Despite its futuristic design, it seemed to be gathering dust. Steven Montgomery whistled. "Nice. The Starfire. We put a bid for designing the prototype for that fighter, but didn't get it. Lockheed Martin won the contract. I didn't think they had a full scale model yet." The hanger looked empty other than the jet, so they left it alone.

The longer they searched, the harder it was for Pendleton to tell where they were, but Margaret O'Brien would generally be able to redirect them deeper into the mountainside. "I've been a real estate agent for long enough," she laughed. "I guess I know my way around strange houses."

Eventually they reached a long branch of corridor leading straight into the mountain. The doors on either side led only to empty offices. Finally, blocking their way, there was a single, heavy steel door, held shut with an electronic keypad lock. A light above the door shone green and steady. From the other side of the door, Pendleton could make out a faint hum.

They gathered around the doorway.

Amanda Grayson stared at the door as if hoping it would fall before her. "We need to get past that. It looks a lot like the door I found on the ride."

Bobby shrugged. "I don't think I can break it." He wrung his hands around the tire iron as if warming up a baseball bat. "Not without something better than this."

His father chuckled. "I don't think that you'll need to, Bob. Let me take a look."

Dan O'Brien briefly studied the electronic keypad then turned away, running his hands over the wall to the right of the door. After a few moments he reached into the toolbag he carried on his belt and pulled out a workman's knife. He cut into the wall, clearing a large panel of the institutional gray drywall and exposing the steel beams that held up the roof. Dan then pulled out a pair of wire cutters and some electrical tape.

"I don't want to turn off all the power. It'll put out the lights and turn off the door; we'd never get in. But most of these things have a fire alarm safety system to automatically open the doors, so I just need to trip that."

Pendleton signaled the others to press themselves against the wall. He braced himself by the door and pulled his gun. Bobby smiled as he took a place on the opposite side, tire iron at the ready. The other parents did as told and kept back.

The electrician traced a bundle of wiring in the wall with his finger and then reached back around the corner with the cutters and tape. A moment or two later, the door whooshed open with a small puff of air.

Pendleton peered into the room in front of him. It was a wide open area, larger than the loading bay, rimmed with computers and technologies of all sorts. Some were recognizable, some were not. Several large view screens dominated the wall to the left. A rail and elevated flooring separated the chairs and computers from the central floor about six feet below. Overhead lights illuminated the sides.

"It's just like Star Trek," Eileen Curry murmured, trying to take it all in while pressed against the wall behind Pendleton.

In the center of the room was a shimmering column of red-orange light, twisting and burning as if it was aflame. It illuminated the center of the large room with a ruddy glow, augmented by a few floodlights from the ceiling far above.

"Put down your weapons!" Pendleton commanded as soon as he rotated into the doorway, holding his gun trained towards the middle of the room. Three technicians, dressed in lab coats, were seated at a bank of computers to his right, and they turned in their seats to face the detective with nervous expressions on their faces. They slowly lifted their hands above their heads.

A pair of hands grasped the railings, and another figure climbed the steps from the center of the room. Pendleton moved his gun to train it on the man coming up from below. He had silver-gray hair and almost violet eyes that studied his visitors calmly. He wore the hint of a smile. At first glance he seemed to be about fifty years in age and his slender, muscular build and dark skin hinted at a Hindi heritage. He was dressed impeccably in a light gray suit and dark blue tie. His black loafers were polished to a reflective shine; they probably cost two weeks pay on a cop's salary. The man held his hands up as he reached the top of his steps, but his face was utterly calm.

"Detective. Ladies. Gentlemen. I don't believe that this is necessary. We are unarmed." He stepped forward. Pendleton lowered his gun slightly.

"My name is Gabriel Bahamut. I've been expecting you."

* * *

He who had been Venger knew no rest, not even in death. He paced the mountaintop, the open throne from which Tiamat once surveyed the burned and wasted lands that she called her home. They had once been more than that. Once they had been a powerful kingdom of strong warriors, a kingdom he had been destined to rule.

Fated had set for it a different destiny. Fate, and the cruelty of the Dragonqueen herself.

Her sinuous necks turned and all her many pairs of eyes watched his every move as he paced. They caught short as they reached the end of the lengths of silver chains that bound her to the floor. That was some measure of satisfaction, at least.

"Answer me! Why have these fools come? How dare they defy me? How do they know to seek me here? What do they hope to gain except their deaths?"

A hiss of vapor drifted into the air from the nostrils of the white head of Tiamat, but she said nothing. In wrath, Venger hurled a bolt of raw force at her, but while she snarled in pain, there was no difference. She would not respond.

His question did not go unanswered.

Stepping into the circle of his power came the short, rumpled figure of an old, old man. "I showed them the way, my son. I brought them here to defeat you."

Venger whirled, and raised his hands for the attack. "Then you send them to their doom. They have no weapons of power. No strength. Even their mage. . . his power is raw and uncontrolled. It can easily be twisted. It saves me the trouble of scouring the earth for them, but what do you hope to gain? You know the skull cannot be broken."

Dungeonmaster cupped his hands together. A soft, pale glow began to swell from between his fingers. "I have come as one who has loved you, once, and loves you still, despite this terrible evil that you have pursued. Draw your soul from the skull and travel with me to the place where we at last belong. Join me beyond death and these spheres we now inhabit. If you continue this course, you will be left ruler of a kingdom of ashes. You will have handed this realm to your chosen master, and for what? Vengeance? You have defeated Tiamat. As you said yourself, those who would stand against you are defenseless against your power. You have achieved all you wished and more. Release yourself. Accept who you have become and let this place go. Please."

A baleful light shone brighter in Venger's skull-like visage. "Never," he snarled in quiet wroth. "You cannot convince me of a sweet hereafter. I have fought too long to accept anything but the bloodied corpses of my enemies. You and your pawns have defied me too many times for forgiveness. Tiamat, always, was the first. And she shall be the last, and when the last dragon dies and these dungeon walls are shattered, I shall turn the Realm to a wasteland. I care not for it any more. When it falls, I shall abandon it to claim my true destiny as a god!"

With that, he hurled twin bolts of raw, twisted chaos at the Dungeonmaster. Dungeonmaster let spill the light gathered in his hands, and the light pooled around the incoming bolts of force and channeled them down into the earth. The mountain shook. Tiamat screamed.

Dungeonmaster countered Venger's strike with multiple images of himself, allowing copies of his form to surround the mountaintop. Venger paused only a moment, then sent another bolt of what seemed a black-green lightening racing from one image to the next around the lip of the mountaintop. The images all disappeared at his touch, and when the lightening reached the end of the circle, the Dungeomaster alone remained, fallen to his knees.

Tiamat roared her fury, and the battle began in earnest.

* * *

A strange, choking stench lingered around the entrance of the Dragon Queen's lair, a smell of fire and death. The four travelers crouched in the shadow of a rock. The night behind them was dark, lit only by occasional flashes of green lightening, but the cavern was well lit by blazing torches on the walls. Within that cavern was a pair of terrors that would haunt Eric's dreams forever.

Dragons. But these were not the beasts of flesh and blood he had known before. Torn skin, shredded with decay, housed an ectoplasmic inferno, leaving the ribs a blackened cage. The columns of vertebrae climbed towards the darkened ceiling, but the burning red eyes of the undead dragons were still visible. And they were watching him.

He didn't dare speak; there was nothing left to be said. He nodded once at Sheila, who lifted her black hood over her head and slipped away, quiet as a ghost. Then he turned to Hank and Diana. Hank handed Diana a slender wreath of Dragonsbane, its berries glittering soft silver in the darkness. A second wreath he gave to Eric, who hung it from his belt next to his sword.

Eric gripped Hank's hand in gratitude. He then turned and cupped Diana's cheek in his palm, pulling her to him for a final kiss. It was over too quickly. He dropped his fingers and counted out, _'1. . . .2. . . ..'_

The mountain suddenly shook, as if struck by a violent blow. There was the sound far overhead of a half-dozen dragons shrieking with rage and fury. The two undead dragons peered around, looking for a cause of the sudden strike.

Eric did not need to drop the third finger. The trio charged into the cavern, weapons drawn and at the ready.

Before they had traveled four paces, Hank had let fly with a pair of arrows, each blazing with white fire. Each struck true, quivering into side of the nearest dragon, a beast with silver strips of flesh still clinging to it in places.

The once-silver dragon arched its head back, ready to breathe icy death upon the adventurers. But they scattered before it, and the dragon let its breath loose upon the barren stone mountainside instead. Hank raced towards the right, loosing another arrow towards it. It twisted its head and snapped at the ranger, who just barely managed to stay out of reach.

Eric charged forward, deflecting a lashing wingtip with his shield as he closed. A large part of him wanted to scream and hide; but he found himself closing on the dragon's back leg in spite of himself.

Diana focused on the second dragon, one whose wings still held sheets of deep green scale. It was larger and slower than the silver, but had turned to face the three intruders and was drawing up to breathe death upon them.

Diana planted the butt of her spear in the ground and used it as a pole to vault herself up onto the green dragon's neck. From there, she inverted her spear and plunged it deep into the inferno that lay between the monster's blackened bones. Lightening rippled across the great dragon, which howled and arched its head back, thrashing its skeletal tail about the cavern. The magic lit the cavern for a moment with a white-blue glow and then went black. At that moment, the spear cracked into two scorched pieces. The spearhead remained burning in the dragon's back, while the shaft clattered on the floor far below. The break sent Diana tumbling backwards along the dragon's back towards its tail. She grabbed one of the vertebrae and clung on for dear life. The green twisted its head to reach towards her, ready to bite off the annoyance.

Hank sent a couple of arching shots across the silver dragon's nose, drawing it again away from Eric. But the dragon was ready to rear back once more to breathe a cloud of decay that would wither Hank's flesh from his bones, this time forever. Just in time, Hank caught out of the corner of his eye a flicker of black disappearing up the steps deeper into Tiamat's lair.

"Now!!" he shouted.

Diana pulled the wreath of Dragonsbane from her arm. With a deft tumble, she rolled forward along the dragon's back to plant herself near the remains of her shattered spear. Gripping the remaining shaft with one hand, she settled the wreath down firmly upon it, using the broken weapon to hold the Dragonsbane against the undead green dragon.

Eric, now below the undead silver dragon and perilously close to being crushed by it, lifted his shield over his head with one hand. The other strayed towards his blade, but instead caught up the second wreath of Dragonsbane from his belt. The silver dragon, becoming annoyed with the pest below him, lifted a foot to crush him. Eric saw his chance and charged the dragon's ankle, ramming the Dragonsbane down around one of the dragon's toes. At that point, he was too close to run. He chose to duck below his shield, bracing for the inevitable blow that would stamp the life out of him.

That blow did not fall. The dragons froze, strangely silent as the blossoming of gold and silver lights twinkled across the animated bones. Then the bones themselves shattered into similar motes of light, dissolving in place before they drifted upwards and away in the night sky.

The three stood in stunned silence for a moment, watching the dragons dissolve with grateful astonishment. But then the sound of a second powerful blow rocked the whole cavern like an earthquake. The muffled sounds of combat came down from above. They looked at each other.

"It must be Dungeonmaster fighting Venger," Eric said, panting.

"Let's go," Diana answered, climbing to her feet and picking up the broken haft of her spear from the ground. The three raced for the steps to the mountaintop as small dustfalls dropped from the ceiling behind them.

* * *

"I apologize for the difficulties you experienced getting here. My investors insist on the strictest security and an absolute 'No Visitors' policy. But please, come in. Welcome to Dymocorp's Celestia facility, Project Transatlantic Tunnel." The elegant gentleman beckoned them into the central room.

Detective Pendleton slowly lowered his gun and slid it into the holster he wore under his coat. He glanced at the others. They each nodded at him except for Bobby, who was staring, with eyes transfixed, at the central viewscreen. Displayed was an empty desert landscape, oddly lit by what appeared to be four suns overhead. Pendleton stepped forward. "If you were expecting us, then you know why they've come." He gestured towards the parents behind him. "Don't you believe they are owed some straight answers?"

Bahamut smiled. "Of course. And answers they will receive. But first, come in and allow me to introduce you to my associates. This is Dr. Neary, and Mr. Laughlin. And I believe you already know our newest employee, Mr. Petrosky?"

"Scanner?" Eileen gasped.

A lab-coated young man with long brown hair, an unshaven chin, and thick glasses, shrugged at her. "I'm sorry, Ms. Curry. I'm happy to fight 'the man', but 'the man' has a hell of a lot of money. I can't live off pizza alone."

Bahamut gave his tech an indulgent smile and stepped back. The group came further into the room. The doors swished shut behind them.

Steven folded his arms angrily. "Who are you? What is this project? What do you want with us and where do you have our children?"

Ethan had already drifted away from the others to run his hands over some of the complex panels. "Amazing," he muttered, mostly to himself.

The man seemed amused. "I am who I said I am. If I were to be more specific, I. . . maintain the gates. I make sure that things stay where they are supposed to be and make certain everything here is kept in its proper place. I appreciate order."

Steven's eyes narrowed. "Then tell us what this is about." He gestured at the room.

Bahamut gestured. "Officially, this is Project Transatlantic Tunnel, as I said. The earth has limited resources. Even that which is accessible must often be transported long distances at high cost. Then, there are elements so rare in nature that they are impossible to utilize. However, the Earth as we know it is not the only place that our science allows us to reach. Project Transatlantic Tunnel is a mining technology. It opens gateways to alternate dimensions and uses those gateways to transfer valuable materials here, to Earth." He paused. "It is an ambitious project, though. Officially, it has not been very successful as yet."

"And unofficially?" asked Pendleton.

"Unofficially, it allows me one path to change the random into order. It keeps this world stable. And it suits my purpose."

Amanda wrung her hands. "Hank's. . . all of the children's. . . disappearance was not 'orderly'. What happened? Did you mess up?"

Bahamut raised an eyebrow. "I do not 'mess up.'" His voice was noticeably cooler.

Margaret jumped in. "Then why are we here? We found you."

Bahamut's displeasure drained away and he smiled again. "I led you here. I need you to assist me with..." he looked up at a secondary screen, apparently some sort of heat-signature from orbit, where a centrally located blob of color wavered between red and bright yellow, with flashes of white. ". . . a custody dispute."

He turned away from the screen to look at them. "My wife would rather keep full custody of all our children. And I am going to make sure that that does not happen."

* * *

"Get up, boy. A magus must never let others see his weakness. A bluff may be the only power you have left." Melchior hauled Presto up to his feet. "Just use your head, and that will be power enough."

Though he managed to stand, half-supported by the old man, Presto could not stop the shaking. All around him was carnage and desolation. A melting wall of ice blocked passage to the west, while to the north and east, the ground had been trampled into mud. Long charred lines raced across the earth, testimony to the flame that the magician had been sustaining before his knees buckled.

The next wave of attacks began just after dusk. Hank, Diana, Eric, and Sheila weren't even a quarter of the way up the mountain before the desolate wastelands around the Mountain of the Dragonqueen disgorged a fresh wave of undead. '_What the hell were they thinking, leaving ME in charge here?' _Fortunately, Strongheart seemed to know what to do and quickly mustered the remaining solders into formation, letting Presto fall back into his magic again.

But this last assault was as fierce as any they had experienced on the journey, and Melchior had no automatons left to guide. Instead, his master stayed at Presto's right hand, making suggestions and supporting him as he tried to draw more power from the elemental planes. Fortunately, it seemed that no more skeletal troops were coming.

No soldiers lowered their swords, however. A chill fog began to ooze from the ground. The warriors that remained standing pulled back, closer to the two magicians. Whether from fear or desire to protect, it was hard to tell.

"Stay together, Men!" The bellow came from Strongheart, the mighty, if now aged, hero who had taken command of Eric's army. He was about forty yards away. His magic hammer gleamed in his hand, a white light that brightened the mists so Presto could see his armor and plumed helmet clearly. He felt a wave of gratitude as the warrior took charge. The soldiers started to fall into formation.

Beyond Strongheart, the mist gathered. Emerging from it came a shadowy form, transparent but blacker than midnight, its tattered cloak moving on unfelt wind. Its eyes burned with green fire.

A surge of magical fear crashed down on Presto, even at this distance. For those closer, it must have been worse, because as he watched, many broke ranks and ran into the darkness. Others whimpered and turned away from the ghastly sight. It did not phase Strongheart.

"Stop, wraith! I will not let you pass." Strongheart lifted his hammer and swung at the shadow.

The shadow flowed easily around the enchanted weapon, too swift-moving for the armor-clad knight. "Is that so?" Presto could barely hear the faint voice across the silent battlefield, but it dripped with sarcasm. "Well, old heroes never die. . . "

Strongheart did not respond. Instead, he smashed his hammer against the ground with the sound like a ringing bell. He raised it and pointed it at the wraith. Tiny pebbles and pieces of metal and wood raced away from it, carried by the force of the golden light in its magic.

The phantom seemed unphased. The light, and the debris it carried with it, moved through the apparition as if it were never there.

Strongheart raised his hammer to block the wraith with its magical field of protection, but his hammer's range was not as great as Eric's old magical shield. The being sidestepped the hammer's defense and quickly reached out, armor and metal plating insubstantial before it. It laid its ghostly hand on the knight's shoulder. ". . . .they just fade away," it said quietly.

Strongheart collapsed to the ground, his weapon fallen, useless, beside him. Presto watched with horror as the hero's face dissolved into fine ash.

The wraith also watched for a moment then looked up. Its eerie green eyes locked on Presto's, and the wizard felt his heart race with dread.

Beside him, Melchior stirred. "I could use that armor," the older wizard said hoarsely, and pulled away before Presto could stop him. The animator slipped forward, trying to use the mist for some amount of cover as he worked his way towards Strongheart's empty plate mail. He tried to slip around the wraith that was slowly moving towards Presto, but the being turned to face him. "Hello, old friend," the wraith said softly. "You were never one of the chosen of Dungeonmaster. My Lord does not require your death. I recommend you leave."

Presto could hear the effects of the fear in Melchior's voice as he answered, "I had the same advice for him, Randale."

The wraith threw back its head and laughed, a terrifying sound. More men from the battlefield fled, and those that had managed to take a step forward froze. Melchior was able to move, but barely, retreating from the wight towards Strongheart's armor again. The undead made no move against him, focusing his gaze on Presto.

A fresh wave of terror flooded over the young mage as the being's eyes locked upon his. Fifteen feet, ten feet. The wraith stretched out his hand, its once-handsome face twisted into a mocking grin.

Recognition dawned, and with it came a hot anger that burned away the terror. "You. You're the one that took Sheila away, aren't you?" The anger gave him a burst of energy, and with it he was able to draw new fire from the void. He hurled the biggest ball of flames he could muster at the wraith, but the power just passed through harmlessly.

The corner of the wraith's mouth twisted in a smirk. It stopped. "She was so talented. I was heartbroken to lose her. I loved her. So sad I must kill her too."

"You mean you used her. You took advantage of her when she was lost and hurt, and lied to her about what you were doing. She believed that you were helping people. I know you told her that." He followed the words with a spell to send a blast of air to knock the wraith back and buy himself more time, but, though the force of the winds staggered Presto, they had no effect at all on the wraith.

The spirit took another step forward. "You like to watch, do you, little wizard? You spy on her, and then judge me? Are you not the Basilisk? Who have you lied to? Who have you hurt? You have done worse." With that it moved quickly towards Presto, reaching out to claim the magician's life just as it had done with Strongheart.

His magic was not working. Panic coursed through Presto's heart, and he turned and raced towards the steps, weeping with frustrated rage. As he ran, he stretched out with his senses, trying to find some vein of power that he hadn't tapped out yet, something that might have a chance of affecting the incorporeal being. He found it.

Blindly, he touched on something dark, evil, and filled with sinister energy. Without even taking the time to think, he tore at the veil separating him from the dark power and grabbed at it. Its foulness flooded through him, a wave of nausea and dread. But the strength of it! As soon as it had touched him he felt it pour down his arms, ready to be shaped.

He stopped running abruptly to look at his hands, the wraith forgotten. Red fire danced between his fingertips. He tilted his head. He could hear a muttering sound, like a hundred voices speaking at once, and he wasn't sure quite what they were saying. Looking past his hand, he could see a curl of mist swirl around his foot. He turned to see the wraith about to lay a hand on his arm.

He didn't hesitate. He channeled the dark energy from his hands in a bolt of blood-red force and fueled it with his own fear and anger. It struck the wraith, scorching a hole right through the middle of the undead. It burned from within like a piece of paper licked by flame. Presto's last vision of it was those mocking green eyes.

Presto looked down at his hands again. The red power still flickered there, waiting for him, and he could feel its sickening touch in his stomach. The voices still muttered inside his head too dissonantly to make out, but every moment, more fell into unison. He looked across the battlefield. The soldiers who remained and even Melchior stared at him. There were no enemies left for them to fight. Presto turned and looked up the steps.

It was so obvious now. His friends should never have left him behind. They needed his power to fight Venger. Defeating Venger was the only thing that mattered. . . once that was done, Hank and Sheila, Eric and Diana, they wouldn't have to run any more. They could be happy together. That's what counted. He could give that to them.

Given new vigor by the dark power that infused him, Presto gestured a quick spell and teleported away.

He never saw what the soldiers and Melchior were staring at: the column of fire that shone about him or the sound of inhuman shrieking coming from the black clouds above. But those who survived that day told others that it was a vision too terrible to name.

* * *

Sheila tried to block out the sound of combat behind her, sending out a silent prayer for the safety of Hank, Diana, and Eric as she ran. She went quickly and silently up the stairs and deeper into Venger's newest lair. The halls shook as hammer blows of magic struck the mountainside, and she could see flashes of light from the top of the staircase. Some great battle was occurring above, but she knew that Venger would never keep the skull some place so exposed. Neither would he let it far from his side. A passage broke off the main staircase and she followed it into the mountain.

It took over ten minutes of searching to find it. She followed passage after passage, each leading towards a central cavern. There she found a deep pit, filled to bursting with gold and precious gems, armor and weapons of every sort. An unnatural heat hung in the air as if the gold had not yet lost the warmth of Tiamat's fiery presence. She did not enter the pit, but worked her way around the edges, trying not to disturb the huge mounds of wealth.

The torchlight that flickered in the cavern also revealed an area in shadows. She made her way carefully towards it, keeping to the shadows herself. She startled when she saw a quick movement nearby, but it was merely her reflection passing an ornate gilded mirror, part of Tiamat's vast treasure trove.

In the darkened area on the far side of the cavern, she found a quiet alcove, lit only by a strange, pulsing, amethyst glow coming from the center of a crystal on a wooden plinth. As she got closer, she could see the carved shape of the eye sockets, the empty nose, the grinning teeth. '_The crystal skull¸' _she breathed. She looked around hurriedly; searching for the club that Dungeonmaster had promised would be there.

It was not hard to find, laying on a table against the wall of the alcove. Sheila's heart clenched in her chest as she laid her hand on its rough, wooden haft. '_Oh, Bobby,'_ she grieved again. Her grip tightened, and she lifted the magic weapon.

It felt cold in her hand. It was lighter than it appeared, a hint that its enchantment still hung with it after all these years. She felt guilty just holding it. '_This is Bobby's, not mine.' _She shook her head. '_Bobby's gone. Deal with it.'_

Eric, Diana, Hank; they had all agreed that if it was at all possible, there was no reason for Sheila to wait to destroy Venger. If the Dragonsbane did not work, destroying it might be the only way to save their lives from the undead dragons at the door. Neither Venger nor any of his guards seemed nearby. This was her chance.

Sheila swallowed and lifted the Barbarian's club. She tapped it once against the ground, and was rewarded with a slight golden glow along its haft and a faint vibration and hum. Then, biting her lip, she swung the club down on the skull as hard as she could.

A loud 'boom' echoed through the caverns, making her ears ring. The floor trembled a little, though the sound may have been lost in the explosive battle raging over her head. The plinth upon which the skull sat was split down to the floor. But the skull sat amongst the splinters, completely unscratched.

"Argh!" she snapped in frustration and swung the club down upon the skull again. Again the skull was unharmed. '_Not good. Dungeonmaster told us this would work!'_ Her second blow was even less effective. Though the club was clearly still powerful, it wasn't like from the days before. Before Bobby. . . .

A voice from the shadows taunted her in with a hiss. "You did not think that Venger would leave his soul unguarded if it could be destroyed that simply, did you?" The ghostly form of Shadow Demon separated itself from the darkness of the room. "The skull cannot be destroyed. Although the club's power did fuel My Lord's transformation, it is unclaimed. And none will live to wield it again!"

Tears sprung to Sheila's eyes, but they didn't diminish her aim. Her hand went to her belt and she drew the whip she had been given by Akbar. She lashed out quickly, bring the whip down upon Shadow Demon with a loud crack.

Shadow Demon shrieked with surprised anger and pain. It seemed completely unfamiliar with the sensation "What is this?" it shrieked, writhing in agony.

Sheila lashed it again. "Get out of here," she hissed at it.

Squealing like a tortured animal, Shadow Demon flowed out of the doorway and disappeared.

Sheila coiled the whip and hung it on her belt again. She grabbed the skull and the club and bundled them in her cloak as best she could and hurried out of the alcove before Shadow Demon returned with backup. She raced down the steps towards the entrance cavern, hoping to encourage her friends to leave with the skull, but when she reached the opening, she found the cavern empty. Hank, Eric, Diana, and the two dragons, were gone.

...

Just as she reached the bottom of the steps, there was a flash of red light. Though momentarily blinded, her eyes quickly adjusted. They cleared to see Presto walking across the empty cavern. She was going to call to him, but her voice caught when he turned towards the steps. The magician's face had turned ghastly pale, and his hands and eyes pulsed with red light. He walked steadily, head tilted as if trying to make out the words to something only he could hear. She hurried to meet him. His eyes were fixed on the steps.

"I'm going to stop him," Presto said simply to her as he pushed past. "Now."

Sheila glanced towards the entrance, and then up towards Presto's back as he steadily climbed the stairs. She could escape now with the skull and club and hope that the others had made their way back down the mountain and would know what to do. They could flee with the skull, maybe throw it into a volcano. But she recognized that light in Presto's eyes from her own nightmares. Those were the eyes of Venger. If she left now, Presto might be lost forever.

For her, it wasn't much choice at all. She had already lost one brother. Still carrying the enchanted objects, she ran back up the stairs after her friend.


	18. The Ties that Bind

**Chapter 18: The Ties that Bind**

Dungeonmaster had not thought he would have a chance. He had grown so old, so small, over the centuries. Surely there was nothing left of his power, nothing capable of defeating the Lich Lord that had once been his son.

The first few rounds were failures. He had struggled to use his own magics, his own mastery of illusion and charm, to fight Venger. It was insufficient. It was foolish to cling to it. He had forgotten his own name an age ago. Why cling to old patterns, old powers?

Finally, he had surrendered to the alien force he had opened himself to long ago.

And with that surrender came rejuvenation.

Now father and son fought, force on force, manipulating bolts of magic like the hammer blows of gods. Their power shook the mountainside. Tiamat hissed at them both, thrashing with excitement, her silver chains binding her neck to the rock below.

Venger caught a powerful blast of magic, full on, barely able to repel it with a small shield in time. The force within Dungeonmaster urged him push harder, drive his son further towards death. Venger was evil. He was beyond redemption. If he won, he would allow the Unnamed to take over this world forever. The Prime was evil's mortal enemy. It would never allow that to happen. Dungeonmaster strained against Venger's shields. Venger staggered back a few steps, nearing the edge of the mountaintop.

Venger howled with rage and deflected Dungeonmaster's bolt. He flung a powerful red beam of his own power towards the old man. Now, Dungeomaster himself needed to dodge. He dived to the side. The beam of force slammed into the mountain, sending more small rockfalls into the darkness below. Dungeonmaster crawled to his knees.

At that moment, three figures broke from the passage below and raced into view. One carried a bow with arrows that blazed with silver radiance. His form straight and strong and true, his hair tossed in the winds that whirled around them. One, intense and dark, bore a sword and shield. The ruddy light of Venger's blast shone dully on the red blade that marked his shield's device. One vaulted from the stairs, beauty, power, and grace as one, tumbling towards Venger with a broken spear shaft in her hand.

They had no chance.

But they were magnificent. He could not let them die. Dungeonmaster cast a magical shield to surround and protect them from Venger's power. The field served to trap them at the same time.

Venger leered. "They will not aid you this time, Old Man. You will fall, and then I shall destroy them one by one."

Filled with the confidence of the forces within him, Dungeonmaster smiled grimly. "This fight is our own. You will never harm them."

He followed the words with a fresh spell, a net of magic to wrap around Venger.

Magical swords swept around Venger, slicing the net to pieces. "We shall see."

* * *

"Fortunately for me, anything you chose to report about this encounter would maintain the order of this world. You could bring a whole unit of Marines tomorrow and find this place empty." The well-dressed gentlemen inspected the panels being manned by the other technicians, who moved quickly aside to grant him access. "So, you may go and attempt to procure other answers, or you are welcome to stay and I will answer what questions I can. I'm afraid that not all my answers will be easy to accept, however."

"Is this some sort of joke?" Dan asked, incredulous. "What do you mean, marital dispute? What the heck are you talking about?"

Gabriel Bahamut finally settled into a seat at one of the many control panels and typed a string of commands into a keyboard built into the station. The viewscreens shifted, zooming closer to the white and yellow splotches, displaying swirling green-black clouds. A high-pitched hum began to emanate from the rooms central pillar. Then he turned back towards the electrician and gestured, offering seats to all of the other parents. None of them bothered. Bahamut nodded his acceptance.

"Perhaps I can better explain a different way." He paused, took a deep breath, and began. "There is an old story in the mythology of ancient Babylon. It spoke of a goddess, a monster named Tiamat, an entity of chaos incarnate. Only one being was her equal, her mate, giver of the code of Hammurabi and incarnate god of order. But these two did not get along well," He looked over at Steven Montgomery and smiled, "Hardly surprising given their differences.

"In the end, they decided that they could not live in the same Realm and moved apart. Tiamat went to a world over which she would have full dominion, and her mate stayed here. Over a thousand years, their attraction to each other would grow. Finally, he would go to her, and they would mate. She would then lay a vast clutch of eggs, a new generation of lesser beings of power. But, once the eggs were laid, their differences were made plain, for Tiamat was a selfish goddess. She wanted to keep all of her progeny to serve her alone. The two gods fought, as ever, and he retreated again to his world. And there he waits until the day the eggs will hatch and he will try to claim his share of the young to serve and be his own."

Bobby made a choking sound, and there was a clanking sound as the hand holding the tire iron dropped, letting the piece of metal fall against the railing. "Are you saying. . . that YOU are Tiamat's MATE?"

Bahamut raised an eyebrow. "Astute, Barbarian. Though I fear that you have left your elders rather confused." The gentleman turned to his other visitors who were staring at him with expressions of disbelief and confusion. "I apologize. I would normally attempt to provide you with a much more logical explanation, but matters become more complicated when my mate becomes involved."

Amanda was the first to speak, shaking her head. "Mister Bahamut. Confused does not even begin to cover it."

* * *

He had reached the entrance to the Dragon's treasure hoard, and there were not many steps left between here and the roof. If she had any hope of reaching him, it had to be now.

Sheila darted after Presto. She grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to turn to face her. His face was ghastly pale and his eyes burned red like the magical fires that dripped from his fingertips. They held no expression at all.

Presto looked down on her. "We need to destroy Venger," he said again. "You can't stop us."

Desperate, Sheila took each side of Presto's head in her hands, forcing him to stay focused on her.  
"Who's 'We'? You don't need to destroy anybody. That's not your style, Presto! Hank, Eric, and Diana are fighting against Venger. You have to trust them. You don't need Him."

Another explosion rattled the mountainside around them. The light of it penetrated the top of the staircase above, causing Presto look up and take a step against her.

"Venger deserves destruction. He deserves to die. We have the power to destroy anyone who stands against us. We will destroy him." He held up his hands. The trickle of power slithered between his fingertips.

"Presto. . . ." Sheila pleaded.

He ignored her and took another step towards the mountaintop.

A flash of anger formed amidst the fear. '_Can't he just listen to himself? Presto doesn't talk like this!'_ She reached out and grabbed her friend's wrist. "ANDREW PRESTON SYDNEY! Listen to me!"

At the sound of the unfamiliar name, Presto stopped, his hands dropping to his sides, the magic flickering out of sight. In a tiny whimper, he answered, "Sheila?"

The deadly nimbus of dark power still surrounded him, but Sheila refused to be intimidated by it. She tugged on his arm, pulling him away from the lights of the ongoing fights above him and, she hoped, out of the range of He who must not be Named.

He stumbled after her, though part of himself still struggled to pull himself free, like an errant child. She dragged him into Tiamat's great treasury, finally releasing him before the mirror that she had seen before.

'_Calling him Andrew worked before. . . '_ "Andrew," she said softly, as he looked at himself in the mirror. "Don't let it in, Andrew. Don't become like Venger, please. . . .Remember who you are. HE is not you. You would never do those things. Please stop."

Above, the sounds of battle crashed around them, celestial forces at war.

* * *

The most frightening thing wasn't the insane voices gibbering madly in his head, their voices resolving towards a single chant.

The most frightening thing was that he didn't know which one of those voices was him.

'_There is a name. That is what we are trying to say. A name that shouldn't be spoken. We aren't there yet. . . but it is coming.'_

'_There is another voice. No, this one is outside. It is not an enemy. We must protect her. Venger is the enemy. A mouth can make the words.' _"We need to destroy Venger. You can't stop us."

'_The voice. . . she. . . is speaking again.' _". . . not your style, Presto. . . trust them. . . .you don't need Him. . . "

'_There was no style. . . there was only power. What purpose is for power but to be a weapon? How could power be trusted to anyone else?'_

"He deserves destruction. He deserves to die. We have the power to destroy anyone who stands against me. We will destroy him."

"Presto. . . "

'_Presto the magician. Presto the wizard. What would he be but power?'_

"ANDREW PRESTON SYDNEY! Listen to me!"

'_Wait! I know that name. Is it? No. . . it's not The Name. Who is it?'_

'_I. . . know that name. I. . . That voice. . . is me. . . '._

"Sheila?" he whimpered.

He let her guide him, too frightened to resist, trying desperately to keep that tiny voice independent from the crowd. She released him when he stopped in front of a large mirror.

"Andrew. . . ..please stop. . . ."

He looked in the mirror. A face looked back. At first, the face reflected the image of power, the face he expected. The blazing eyes, burning with the evil strength that filled him. The energy that crackled from his fingertips. The pale skin of a body on the verge of being overwhelmed by its own weakness as a vessel for the forces it contained.

But there were differences. _'Glasses.'_ He wore glasses. Weapons of evil power do not wear glasses. He was pretty sure of that.

White robes, somehow still unstained after all the bloodshed below. The torchlight glimmered on the silver wards that encircled his sleeves. _ 'Mastery. Protection. Life. Courage. Peace. Wisdom. Compassion.'_ Those things had to mean something, didn't they?

And if they did, maybe he wasn't what he thought. Maybe he was not. . .

'_A mage who used dark magic. . . '_

'_Dark magic. . . '_

There was the sound of three voices crying out in fear or concern, and then the room shook with another surge of magical power. The magic so strong he could feel the ripples of it running across his skin. '_Venger!'_ Hank, Eric, and Diana were there, and in danger.

'_Dark magic...' _more voices were chanting that refrain at him.

'_It is too late. You were defeated the moment you cast the spell.'_

'_Dark magician.'_

At least he could use the power to destroy Venger before the evil claimed him completely.

He abandoned the mirror and, ignoring the outside voice's protestations, he swept past her, and up the stairs.

* * *

The first wave of power from planes beyond washed across the precious hoard of Tiamat. It lingered for a moment at the edge of her trove, warming it with its primal forces like the first rays of summer sunlight brightening a beach of golden sand. Then it climbed higher in the sky.

Buried deeply within a nest of wealth beyond imagining, hundreds of bright-colored eggs responded to the warmth of that dark radiance. The gold shifted. A cracking sound could be heard.

The dragons were hatching.

* * *

Finally, the battle came down to a simple test of strength. Venger was pinned against a rocky outcrop on one side of Tiamat's mountain caldera, a torrent of scarlet energy flooding from his hands. Dungeomaster was pressed down to the ground on the other side of the bowl, white light streaming around him. The two forces met in the middle, sparks shooting in all directions as the center leaned sometimes towards one, sometimes towards the other combatant.

Eric had to admit, the little guy was more than holding his own. Venger had had the upper hand at first. The cavalier thought the old DM was a goner. His skin crawled at the memory of the sick miasma that had surrounded Venger's skeletal form, a horrible presence that could be felt, but not seen. But soon after he, Diana, and Hank had reached the mountaintop, things had changed. Venger weakened slightly, and that miasma around him grew less.

After that, the old man stepped up. Always around him there had been an 'essence of Dungeonmaster', a sense of cosmic power, that Eric could never explain. It was the power that Dungeonmaster had once pushed on to him before going on vacation, along with the red robes that he wore until after they left the city of Darkhaven. The Force. The energy hovered about the old man, like something Eric could almost reach and use if he asked. It was that power, or sense of it, that seemed to grow stronger as Venger weakened. Dungeonmaster had pinned Venger twice before the lich managed to writhe free. A moment ago, they had all panicked when Venger managed to knock Dungeonmaster off his feet, but he had quickly retaliated.

Now they were both locked in place, strength on strength. Eric knew it was only a matter of time before one weakened. Then the battle would be over. Judging from the force building in their old mentor, and the power waning in Venger, the winner would be Dungeonmaster.

Diana smacked the bubble that contained them again, frustrated at her ineffectiveness. Eric laid a hand on her arm. "It's OK," he said, trying to sound confident. "Old DM is going to win this one."

There was a sound behind them on the stairs. Hank, behind him, muttered, "Oh, no. . . Presto. . . " voice thick with despair.

Eric didn't have to turn to realize what Hank saw. That sick feeling he had known in the presence of Venger, the faint echoes of which had followed their camp since they'd reached the plains around the Dragonqueen's mountain, made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Diana moved back to see.

Once, he had looked when he should not have. Dungeonmaster warned him that he must not, but he was the stupid cavalier, and he couldn't help it. There was no pillar of fire now, no face in the clouds, but he knew the presence of evil was there just as he had that moment long ago. Healthy paranoia told him the rest.

He couldn't bear to see his oldest friend like that, so Eric focused on other things. The crystal droplet trickling down his lover's cheek, glinting in the fiery red light. The red-haired thief, hurrying up behind, carrying her bundled cloak in her arms. The way the silver bands around Tiamat's neck simply dissolved away. And the look of horror in Dungeonmaster's eyes as he saw his once-pupil approach.

Venger hissed, forcing his magic all the harder on the old man. "Now you know your failure is eternal, 'Father'. Even if you can defeat me, another rises to take my place."

Eric could see the hopeless grief in the old man's expression. He strained against the spell that held him to make out his words.

"I brought them here. This is my fault," Dungeonmaster said softly, the magic pinning Venger unwavering. "My failure." The sage's mouth tightened, and Eric could hear anger growing in the Dungeonmaster's voice. "My Pupil. No! I will not let you have him. You can not have a single one of them!"

Eric could hear Hank's plea, "Presto, don't. . . " behind him. He kept his eyes on the battling mages, a cold pit of fear growing in his stomach. Dungeonmaster turned slowly away from Venger, stopping when his pale blue eyes locked on Eric's. "I am sorry, Young Ones," he said quietly. "Goodbye."

Dungeonmaster lifted one hand and pointed it, palm up, at Presto. Eric turned, finally forcing himself to look at the magician. A soft glow shone from Dungeonmaster onto Presto, who had been reaching up to blast Venger with some sort of malign sorcery. The spell caught Presto off guard. He was enveloped in a light too blinding to look at, and Eric, Diana, and Hank had to shield their eyes from the glare. When Eric lowered his arm, Presto was standing in the same spot, hands still up, but shining with that white glow. His clothes flickered into the red and gold robes of Dungeonmaster, a form Eric remembered well. Presto looked staggered, and instead of baleful fire, confusion reigned in his friend's hazel eyes.

Eric turned back to Dungeonmaster in time to see him drop his hands. Venger's power washed over the old man in waves, and Eric could see his skin charring and turning black, peeling back layer by layer. Yet Dungeonmaster never moved, just watching Venger sadly until the last. Eric watched in horror as his old teacher's body was cremated before his eyes. Finally nothing remained of him but a fine ash.

Venger did not hesitate, immediately turning the power of his spell away from Dungeonmaster onto Presto and Sheila, who were unprotected at the entrance from the caverns below. "You cannot stop me!" he cried. "I have the power of the skull. I cannot be destroyed."

Presto, his face still blank with shock and confusion, lifted his hand. A silvery shield surrounded himself and Sheila, protecting them from Venger's assault. As soon as the spell had been cast, he grabbed his head and screamed "HELP ME!!"

Then, as if some vital plug had been pulled, he fell to the ground unconscious.

* * *

Green, blue, red, white, black. One by one the eggs began to hatch and the small dragons emerged, shedding their covers of coins and gems, resting on the mounds of precious silks and dishes. They soaked in the dark power that streamed down from above, allowing it to unfurl their wings and invigorate them for the flights to come.

But then many keened in annoyance as another flow of power streamed down from above, this as bright as the previous was dark. Pure and aching sweetness washed across Tiamat's vast clutch, warming the unhatched brood within.

The Dragonqueen's spawn responded. There was a scrabbling and scraping from within the golden nest, and then the first egg teeth and claws could be seen. Behind them, the treasure's colors reflected, gold and silver, brass and copper and bronze, all scrambling free of their broken shards to soak up the beneficent rays.

A new generation of dragons was born.

* * *

Detective Pendleton rubbed the bridge of his nose to keep at bay the headache that was quickly developing. "All right. Assuming you are not insane, which is a pretty big assumption, what you're saying is that you are from a different world. . . "

"Parallel dimension," Ethan Curry interjected.

"Parallel dimension," Pendleton continued. "And the missing kids are trapped in that world. And this. . . " he gestured at the room, "is here to bring them back and so you can bring some number of your 'children' back here also."

The parents were all looking on at him and Bahamut expectantly. Pendleton shook his head. "You have to admit, it's farfetched. Why should we believe you?"

Bahamut quickly moved to yet another one of the chairs that circled this part of the room and neatly sat down in it. "Ah, but that's the beauty of it, my good detective. You don't have to believe me. All you have to do is watch for yourself. See?"

As he finished speaking, Bahamut flipped three switches on the panel in front of him. In the center of the room, the column began to glow brighter and brighter, darkening to reds, midnight blues, and blacks, with faint flashes of other colors within it. He turned a dial, and sounds emerged from the pillar, like voices on a radio being tuned to frequency. Bahamut then activated a final switch and typed a few additional keystrokes onto a waiting keyboard.

The image on the central viewscreen shifted again, this time to reveal an impossibility. A horned and robed skeletal figure hurling light from his hands. A five-headed dragon spreading her wings across half the sky. And, springing into battle as the protective forcefield around them shattered, fantasy warriors with the faces of their own children, older. . . but. . .

Amanda Grayson gave a sob and covered her mouth with her hands. Beyond that, there was perfect silence as they all watched the battle.

* * *

Venger expected pleasure at watching the man who called himself his father fall to ashes at his feet. He expected to feel triumph to see these gadflies, these tormenters, who had tortured him so long flee powerless before him. He had been certain that once his victory over Tiamat was complete, he would find the satisfaction that had eluded him since the day the Dragonqueen devastated his homeland and he had given himself over to his new master.

But now that the cusp of that victory was here, he felt nothing. No joy. No peace. Not even anger any more. All his victories, and nothing had changed. He did not even sense contentment from his Master, who had abandoned him.

The Young Ones scattered before his blasts, the bubble that protected them shattering upon Dungeonmaster's death. Only the Magician and the Thief remained protected. Venger turned his attention to destroying the others.

The Ranger whirled and fired a number of arrows at him. The blows would have stung, but he could deflect them with minimal effort. Soon, his quiver was empty and the Ranger was forced to hide amidst the rubble of the previous battle. The Cavalier and the Acrobat were reduced to hurling rocks at him, hoping to distract him long enough to give one or the other the opportunity to close. The effort might have elicited laughter, long ago, but at the end it was too pathetic to merit it.

He raised his hands for the blow that would reduce the boulder behind which the Cavalier cowered to slag, and the Young One with it. "You have defied me these many years," he intoned. "Since the very day you arrived on this world. You have freed my slaves, vanquished my armies, and given hope to the people I chose to conquer. Whole nations would call you heroes. But see, at the end, you are merely pathetic mortals, ants to be crushed out by the touch of true power. And so I will destroy you."

Red light began to form in his hands. Then a huge red claw swung down upon him, tossing the Lich Lord aside and disrupting the spell. A sibilant voice from the central head hissed, "Power, Venger? You know nothing of power. You are, as you have always been, a pawn for those who hold true power." The five heads of the dragon Tiamat turned to peer at their victim, their throats free of the silver collars that had bound them.

"Tiamat's free?" the Acrobat asked, peering out at him from her hiding place. Venger pulled himself up to his knees, recovering from a blow that would have killed him before he chose the path of death.

A hissing head, the blue one, answered the acrobat, "I, be bound not of my choosing?" The head arched back with mocking laughter. The green head growled softly in reply, "I chose this place and this time. I required these energies here for my children." The white and black heads gave a wordless shriek of triumph.

A portion of the mountainside crumbled in response to Tiamat's cry, and Venger could see first one, and then a second, small, dragon-like shadow spin upwards from below to circle in the darkened sky.

Venger knew now that he had been deceived by the Dragonqueen all along, that his rage and fury had been a part of her plan, that she had led him here. He expected humiliation, fury, and defeat. But still there was nothing in the still heart that lay dormant in his chest. Only one thing remained in the barren emptiness. '_If the world is not to be mine, then it will be no one's.'_

"Even you cannot kill me, Tiamat. The skull cannot be destroyed by any now living. Char these bones to ash and I will remain. I will return, and I will destroy this world and all your children." He pulled himself to his feet to face the dragon, forgetting the Young Ones who had been the previous focus of his wrath.

Tiamat raised herself into the air on huge, bat-like wings and breathed ice down towards the undead arch-mage. "We shall see."

* * *

"_What happened?"_

"_I'm not sure, Hank. I tried to stop him, but he said he had to go destroy Venger. I think it's. . . "_

"_It was Big Ugly. And Dungeonmaster. They're both in him. Can't you feel it? What a mess."_

"_What can we do, Eric?"_

"_Pray? Diana, look out! We're going to get flattened if any more rocks come down."_

The voices sounded like they were being run through a fan, very far away and hard to hear over the background buzz. On the viewscreen, they could see the figures. . . their children, moving towards the one that had fallen, trying not to be crushed by the violent struggle going on overhead between Venger and Tiamat. The skies in the background were as violent as the struggle, massive red-on-black stormclouds that flashed with lightening. The sky was changing, however, for the winds were breaking the clouds up, and sometimes a pale shaft of moonlight could break through. The shadows of winged forms, the shadows of small dragons, crisscrossed the sky, staying well away from the fray.

Bobby dropped the tire iron completely and clutched the railing, watching every movement on the screen intently.

"_Did you try the _Club_, Sheila?"_

"_I did. I thought I got it working, but it wasn't enough to break the skull. I'm not Bobby. It never could work as well for any of the rest of us."_

Gabriel Bahamut stood up, eyes also fixed on the screen. "OK, Young Ones. Don't let me down."

* * *

'_Oh, God. . . my head. What happened?'_

'_You passed out.'_

'_I passed out.' _

'_It was getting a bit crowded in here. This is better.'_

'_It is better. There're still so many voices.'_

'_True.'_

'_Which one am I?'_

'_Good question.'_

'_And?'_

'_Andrew Preston Sydney. Lived with Granna and Pops at 5302 Summer Lane. Westdale High. Likes chemistry, math, and magic for all the same reasons. Hates gym class and liverwurst and people who pick on Carlos Metzinger. Then stuff happened. Rollercoaster. Realm. I can go on.'_

'_I think I remember. Which one are you?'_

'_Hard to tell in the crowd?'_

'_Yeah.'_

'_It's OK.'_

'_So?'_

'_I've been here the longest. I was with you when your mom left and I'm the one who convinced you not to do Eric's papers for him. I know why you wear sweaters in August, because I was with you that last Thursday behind the gym. I've been with you ever since. I've always been here.'_

'_Oh. So who are the rest of them? The chanting. . . they're all together and they sound so evil. It's like what happened with Venger, right?'_

'_Like Venger. You must have gotten powerful enough to attract the attention of a great evil.'_

'_What's He doing to me?'_

'_You already figured that out. He's trying to drown you out. Make you lose yourself in all of the voices. Then he can turn whatever broken mess that comes out of it into whatever he wants.'_

'_Oh. The other voices are growing. The Prime. They say they have the answers. They want me to. . . '_

'_Be the Dungeonmaster?'_

'_Be the Dungeonmaster. Dungeonmaster put his power in ME?'_

'_Looks like.'_

'_That's crazy.'_

'_What isn't?'_

'_True.' _

'_Besides, it gives you another choice.'_

'_I have a choice?'_

'_That's as true on Earth as it is on the realm. You always have a choice.'_

'_Always?'_

'_Always. You just might not have figured out what choices you have yet.'_

'_And some choices are real hard.' _

'_True.'_

'_So what are my choices?'_

'_You try.'_

'_I could use the power of HIM to kill Venger.' _

'_Yes.' _

'_I could use Dungeonmaster's power against him. Might get a tie.' _

'_Yes.' _

'_Or I could not.' _

'_Yes.'_

'_I don't want to be Venger. Or Dungeonmaster. Can't I just be me?'_

'_I'm rather fond of me, myself'_

'_What about the voices?' _

'_We'll tackle them together. They've got each other to fight, now. Should keep them distracted.'_

'_What about Venger?' _

'_You'll think of something.'_

'_Why do I have to think of it? Why don't you?' _

'_One thing at a time.'_

* * *

"Wait, I think he's coming too." Hank's voice sounded as solid and reassuring as ever, the voice that had kept them going through a hundred adventures, long ago. All except the last one.

Presto's eyes slowly fluttered open, and Sheila felt a knot of relief in her throat as she saw that his eyes weren't blazing with red fire, but his normal hazel. "Presto. . . .I mean, Andrew. . . ?" she asked nervously. "Is it you?"

The magician gave a small nod, then swallowed. He closed his eyes again and Sheila could see, in the flashes of fire and magical light bursting from the skies above them, tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks.

Eric stood over them, looking down at Presto with a very thoughtful expression on his face. He held his shield over his head, and when the aerial combat broke free a small rain of pebbles, he used it to deflect the pebbles away. "You look like you were run over by a couple of freight trains, buddy. Are you gonna let it go?"

Sheila brushed the young mage's hair back from his forehead with a gentle touch. She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Hank, his fierce blue eyes scanning the battle above to see if it threatened the small group.

"Venger?" Presto murmured, though his voice was so soft that none could hear it over the sounds of the battle overhead.

Diana crouched by Eric. "Don't worry about him, Presto. We'll figure something out, together. Trust us."

Hank looked down, and offered, "And trust yourself. You don't need Him. Remember, that's what Madeline said. 'You have everything you need.' "

More tears trickled down Presto's cheeks, pooling at the edge of his glasses before continuing down. "I'll. . .try."

He closed his eyes and balled his fists. Sheila closed her eyes too, silently praying that the Evil One's claim on her friend would be broken. She could feel Hank's hand tightening on her shoulder and hear Eric's quiet encouragement.

A flash of heat caused her to open her eyes again and quickly pull back, but when she opened her eyes there was only a lingering glimmer in the air. Under her hand, Presto twisted to his side and curled into a fetal position. There was silence above as Venger and Tiamat separated and were both glaring down on the group.

"What happened?" she asked softly.

Hank shook his head. "I don't know. But we better move.''

Eric was looking up at the sky. "I'd say they ditched the middlemen and decided to take this fight to a bigger playground."

A ruby ball of magical force slammed into the ground by Diana and she leapt aside. "I don't think Venger is too happy about it."

Hank pulled Presto up on his arm and pulled him behind the cover of some fallen rubble. Sheila quickly scooped up her prizes, and ran after them. She sank down behind the boulders. Eric joined them, shield still held up to ward off whatever came.

"What do we do?" she asked, remembering Venger's words. "Even if Tiamat kills him, he'll still control the undead and keep attacking the Realm. He'll keep coming back."

Diana came darting in to join them, sliding down behind the rock and looking exhausted. "If only Bobby were here. He'd be able to shatter that thing."

"That's it!" Sheila startled as she felt a hand grip her arm. She looked down to see Presto pulling himself into a sitting position. Her eyes narrowed in confusion as Presto continued, seeming to hold both sides of a conversation with himself. "Can I do it?...I think so. . . there's enough power left. You sure? It can't hurt to try. So we going to try it? Yes. Yes." As he said yes, his eyes refocused and he turned to look straight at her. "Do you believe me?"

She hesitated. He sounded more than a little crazy, the way he was talking to himself, and it had not been ten minutes since she feared his mind had been taken over by an evil demonic thing forever. But, on the other hand, he was her friend. He didn't seem at all confused when he looked at her. And losing faith in their friendship had almost cost her everything, almost cost her her own soul. It had caused all of them great pain. She remembered her words to Presto from the day before. They were family now. If Bobby had asked her, she would have said yes. Because he was Bobby. Did Presto deserve less?

She stared back down at Presto with steady green eyes. "Yes."

Presto nodded. He hauled himself up to his feet. Hank helped him up, though the ranger seemed uncertain. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Diana looked dubious, but Eric gave her a reassuring, if somewhat queasy, smirk. "He's OK. They're gone."

Presto swayed alarmingly, but raised his hands and closed his eyes and began to speak in the tones that they remembered so well from the days when he made his entreaties to his temperamental weapon.

"Bonds of spirit, flesh, and bone  
Make a gate to lead us home."

He slowly drew his hands apart, and between his fingers a cats cradle of light grew wider and wider, growing until it had created a brilliant circle before them. Presto's fingers twitched as he wove the circle larger. He was shaking with the effort of the spell but did not stop until the circle was just big enough for a person to pass through. Satisfied, he turned to Sheila and said, "Get Bobby."

Hank lowered him to the ground as his knees buckled.

* * *

"Neary, activate the substation Heisenberg stabilizer. Laughlin, Petrosky, the Epsilon protocol, gentlemen." As the central column of the chamber brightened to a white light and its hum shook the cavern walls, Gabriel made no effort to hide his satisfaction. "Come to Papa. . . "

* * *

Faith. Bobby was dead. Presto was crazy. Hank a stranger with mysterious powers unlike any she'd seen before. Diana had grown so hard, like every piece of softness had been burned out of her body. And Eric, ERIC, was telling her that things were going to be okay, based on nothing but his own intuition. There was no reason for her to believe. But she had to. Everything sensible in her, all her training, warned her that she should be wary. But her heart told her that these strangers were still her friends, still her family. Together, with trust, they had survived the Realm's many dangers. She had to trust them now, as they had trusted the changes in her.

Sheila reached her hand out and, with a deep breath, thrust it into the circle Presto had made. The circle, the portal, swept across her with great coldness as her fingertips passed through. It was not harming her, however, and she stepped towards the gateway. All she could see within were the brilliant waves of blinding white light.

She screamed and sprang back in sudden fear as she felt a larger, powerful man's hand close tightly around her own. The hand that held hers would not allow her to pull free. Around her, the portal suddenly grew in size, three times as tall and twice as wide. She tried to pry off the offending grip. Sheila was able to pull back, though she did not so much free herself as pull whomever had been holding her forward. As she drew away from the portal's light, she could see the hand holding her. Her eyes traced up the arm, then she looked up at the face that broke free of the portal.

Sheila fell back onto her bottom as the hand released her. The blood drained from her face.

Bobby smiled, the light of the portal framing his sturdy build. "Hiya Sis! Did ya miss me?"

* * *

Once upon a time, there had been a young prince, heir to a powerful throne. He was the darling of the court and the pride of his father, the king, whose great-horned helm he was one day destined to inherit. The fawning courtiers and servants hung on his every word and his mother adored him.

A sister was born, fair as he was dark, coquettish and bold. Though little changed for him, he had a competitor for his parents' affections and his will was oft thwarted. One day, he had asked that his favorite steed be saddled and waiting for him, but when he arrived at the stables, the horse was not ready. It was a simple rage, one of many, a single tantrum, but when he opened his eyes, twelve horses, three stableboys, the master hunter and four groomsmen, and six palace guards, all lay around him, dead. Their bodies were pierced through as if with blades, and their hot blood pooled on the cobblestones of the courtyard at his feet.

One small mistake, and everything changed. He was swept away from his father's palace, taken by the court magician to a small cottage in the middle of nowhere, denied access to servants or luxuries, even his beloved horses. There, the palace court mage counseled him in lesson after infuriating lesson about the intricacies of magic, always threaded through with dire warnings of dangerous consequences, but the training was slow. His teacher had no straight answers, only endless hints and questions. Still, the prince studied on, hoping for the day when he could finish his apprenticeship and return to his place in his father's court.

Then came the arrival of the messenger, from whom he learned that Tiamat had attacked his kingdom, slaying his father when he led their army out to meet her. That day, he learned of his sister's ascension, how she, less gifted, less dangerous, but, most importantly, still present in the kingdom, had been made his father's heir. Furious, he ignored his teacher's warnings and went forth to combat the Dragonqueen Tiamat, determined to bring down the one who had killed his father and reclaim his right to the throne.

But Tiamat was stronger than he. The storm of their confrontation roiled the celestial heavens, and drew to him greater forces, dark forces, that offered him the knowledge and power to subvert Tiamat, drive her back to the Dragon's Graveyard, and to eventually destroy her. He hesitated. His teacher pleaded with him, begging him to put aside the tainted power. But in his appeal, his teacher claimed that his birthright was empty, that his claim was false. That he truly was nothing, unworthy of his throne. The court mage claimed that he, the prince, was his own bastard son. The appeal drove the prince away, turning him to the dark power. With that power, he pushed back Tiamat from the ashes of his shattered kingdom.

The prince, now called Venger, raised armies to claim the whole realm as his own. His grieving teacher alone stood to stop him, calling on his own otherworldly forces to thwart his pupil. The two locked in a combat that lasted a thousand years, while Tiamat, ever the prince's mortal enemy, laughed.

But now his old opponent was no more. After a temporary weakness, Venger felt a wave of renewal as the power of his celestial ally washed into him once more. He redoubled his efforts, bony wings sweeping him nimbly across the sky with sails of eldritch magic. Tiamat countered him at every turn, fire and ice and lightening, but Venger was swift, and the weapons beat uselessly against the mountainside. It seemed that here, at the end, Tiamat's strength might be weakening. Deep wounds sliced her flanks, and her blood dripped freely upon the stony summit below. Venger raised his hands in the air, a sphere of red energy growing between them. In one strike he would drag her from the sky once and for all.

All around him, the forms of dragons circled like vultures waiting to feed. But they were small. He could deal with them once he sent their mother crashing to the ground.

But then, below, a bright white light glimmered. Some sort of spell, no doubt, from the Young Ones. He would deal with them in a moment.

He heard the sound of Tiamat's hissing voice. "He was supposed to have chosen the Cavalier," she grumbled. "It was the safer path, and Dungeonmaster was always a coward."

He backed away swiftly, unwilling to commit the spell until he was certain he understood what Tiamat had planned. Venger looked back down at the small figures of the mortals below, seeking the Cavalier. As he watched, he saw first one, a blond-headed figure, step from the white light below, followed quickly by a platinum-haired man with whom he had no familiarity. The man's voice resonated across the mountaintop with an echo of power as he answered Tiamat's complaint. "Mortals are more chaotic than you assume, my dear."

Bile rose in Venger's long-dead throat. Here, at the end, at his moment of triumph, and he was being ignored? "You shall fall!" he roared. The lost heir let free the blast of magefire he had been building. The blow impacted Tiamat's shoulder heavily, sending her spiraling towards the ground below, bone and sinew ripped free under its might. He swept down to follow her, preparing a killing strike.

Only as he approached the ground did he see who the other figure to step from the gate was. '_The Barbarian lives!' _Only then did he realize that the Barbarian had taken up his Club once more. '_He has the _Club_!' _He could not even stop to redirect his blows before the Club was lifted high above the crystal skull. '_I will die!'_

The mountain of the Dragonqueen rang like a bell under the power of the Barbarian's blow. The skull shattered into a million glittering pieces, each sparkling white in the light of the portal that had brought him. As Venger's broken body crashed to the ground, his soul spun outwards into night. And there, beyond the darkness, the boy prince thought he could hear his teacher's voice, calling to him.

'_Come home, my son.'_

* * *

After Bob O'Brien had stepped into the column of pulsing white light and they saw him on the viewscreens beyond it, there was no stopping the parents of the missing children from following him.

Detective Pendleton had tried to block the O'Brien boy from entering. But once he had figured out what was happening on the viewscreen, he simply said, "Looks like they need me." He stepped into the column as if it had never been glass and metal but a few moments before. Gabriel Bahamut was quick to step after him, his hair brightening to brilliant silver in the light of the gateway just a moment before he disappeared into the light.

Margaret and Dan O'Brien, as much unwilling to lose their son as out of a need to find their daughter, followed behind only a few moments later, their faces flushed with fervent hope. Ethan and Eileen followed them. The astronomy professor's eyes sparkled with excitement at the prospect of traveling through the gateway. He peered intently at each element of the mechanism before passing through, muttering about strange force and paired particles.

Steven Montgomery looked down at Amanda Grayson and his lip twitched upward into a small smile. "Are you ready?"

The petite blonde slipped her hand into his. "I am now."

Together, the two took a deep breath and stepped through the portal, leaving Detective Pendleton alone in the center of the open cavern. The techs studiously ignored him, monitoring their equipment or stealing glances at the screen. Pendleton shook his head and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trenchcoat, where he could feel the reassuring weight of his gun underneath. '_In for a penny.'_

With three swift steps, he strode up to the towering portal and passed through.

...

It was a shock just to be outside again, let alone to be outside under such an alien sky. The clouds overhead rolled back from the mountaintop, as if a heavy storm had blown through. They left exposed patches of foreign stars and rays of not one, but three distant moons. Hovering between himself and those distant heavens, winged forms circled by the hundreds, great flocks of dragons spinning below the stars. The brown-black rocks of the volcano had been broken and cracked, damage from the battles he had recently been witness too.

Perched on the highest remaining point loomed the mighty form of a dragon, for he could find no better word for her. Five heads twisted and peered upwards at her children, green and black, white and blue, and the central head of red attached to a huge red body and sweeping wings. The center of her attention, however, was upon the figure of the gentleman who stood calmly before her, Gabriel Bahamut. He was still clad in his dapper gray suit, but his hair had shifted to a brilliant metallic platinum. The greatest change in the man, however, could not be described, for he radiated an aura of raw power and light that could only be felt, not seen. The five-headed dragon seemed unamused by Bahamut's presence, but was listening to him. They both ignored the humans who lingered near the portal.

Turning away from the dragon, Pendleton walked towards the others. Despite the strangeness of their surroundings, he could not help but feel a lump in his throat as he watched them.

A lovely, red-haired young woman was almost buried under the tight embrace of Bob, Dan, and Margaret, crying and laughing together and all talking so quickly over one another that he couldn't make out anything specific that they said. Pendleton did see her pull away for a moment to point to the blond, Hank. It was the tears he would remember, the tears of joy in her pale green eyes as she drank in the sight of her brother again.

After just a moment of excited hugs and kisses, Pendleton could see the Currys' statuesque beauty of a daughter talking animatedly with her parents. She looked little like her missing persons photo. Tattoos scrolled down her arms and legs, a fierce war paint on her excited face. As he drew near, he could hear her ask about her brother, Michael, and begin telling them about a pilot that she had met. He raised an eyebrow at that. Ethan was listening intently, as if trying to absorb every word so he could play it back later in the quiet of his observatory. Eileen seemed content just to hold Diana's hand tightly, as if trying to reinforce the fact that she was truly real and not some dream-figment that would disappear upon awakening.

The two older boys, though boys no longer, seemed momentarily confused at their respective parents' first approach, but Amanda let go of Steven's hand and swept her blond-haired son up into her arms. Hank hugged her awkwardly, as if she were made of china or fine glass, uncertain of how to react.

He pulled back from her, pushing her gently away so he could look her up and down, trying to evaluate her changes in all this time. "Mom," he asked quietly, "I'm fine, Mom. I'm really fine. But. . . are you. . . okay? I mean. . . " he looked around searching for someone to give a second opinion on his mother's condition, as if unwilling to trust her.

Amanda gripped his arms tightly and looked steadily into his crystal blue eyes, her expression calm and unwavering at the end. "You're alive, Hank. I'm perfect."

Hank studied her carefully for a moment longer. "Then you're better, Mom?"

Amanda glanced over her shoulder at the looming figure of the great dragon behind them all. "I don't know what will happen now, but I'm sorry for. . . how I was. . . since Chris died. You deserved better. If there was any way that I could make amends, I would. But I am fine now. Your dad would be so proud."

Hank gave a relieved smile and allowed himself be pulled into her embrace once more.

Near them, Steven Montgomery squared off with the handsome, dark-haired man who was his son. Both shifted uncomfortably, in so many ways mirror images of each other, each bearing themselves with a stiff formalness that Pendleton had grown accustomed to in the older Montgomery. He knew that each was desperate to reach the other.

"Dad. . . "

"Eric. . . you're alive."

"You're here. You came."

Steven Montgomery blinked for a moment then offered his hand to his son. "Son, I suppose I've never been very good at showing it, but I would travel to the end of the world for you." He looked pointedly up at the strange sky and the triple moons that shone within it. "And beyond."

Eric swallowed and gripped his father's hand. But the older man, uncharacteristically, pulled his son close and wrapped an arm around his shoulders in a firm embrace. The younger man, startled, resisted the pull at first, but then let himself relax and hugged his father back. His voice was hoarse as he said simply, "I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, Son."

Detective Pendleton moved past them to find the one other figure that was alone on the mountaintop. A young man with russet hair, wearing a plain white robe, sat with his back to a large boulder. His head rested in his arms, and he seemed weak and exhausted. Pendleton had interviewed victims of serious assault in the hospital who looked better. He sat down next to the young man, near enough to be shoulder to shoulder. The shining portal hovered in the air before them both.

"Andrew?" Pendleton asked, though he knew the answer.

Andrew nodded.

"Good. My name is John Pendleton. I'm a detective with the state police department."

Andrew did not answer.

He took a moment to compose his words. Despite his attempted veneer of professional detachment, his own emotions in check only with difficulty. The kid needed his empathy now, though, not his detachment. "Andrew, I was sent by your grandmother and grandfather to find you. We've been looking for you and your friends every day for the last eight years. They would have given anything to be here now."

Andrew lifted his head and Pendleton could see that his eyes were swollen and puffy. "They're dead, aren't they?" he asked quietly, his voice cracking with exhaustion.

Pendleton sighed. He'd hoped to postpone this conversation until a later time. Preferably much later. Perhaps with a professional therapist. But that was not to be. "I'm sorry for your loss. They never stopped believing in you, Andrew. They knew you weren't dead. They just weren't able to hang on that long."

Andrew nodded wearily, resigned. "I knew that might happen."

Pendleton said nothing. A small distance away, he saw Steven's son, Eric, lead Diana Curry away from her parents briefly to introduce her, specifically, to his father. The way they held hands, it was clear there was something between them.

"They want to get married," Andrew informed him, though the young man's eyes were beginning to drift closed. "In the spring. Diana likes blue lilies and that's when they're in bloom. I think Hank wants to marry Sheila too, but they aren't ready yet. Why were you at the other side of the gate?"

Pendleton had been thinking about it for some time. "I think we're here because Bahamut wanted us here. He was waiting for something. . . I think for that portal...to be opened. He has a lab on earth that can see this place, but I don't think he can reach it on his own. At least not the way he wants."

Almost as if in answer to his statement, there was a roar that echoed across the mountaintop, startling all the abductees and their parents into silence. Pendleton twisted himself up high enough to look over the boulder. He saw the shape of Gabriel Bahamut distort and transform, shimmering in silver light to grow larger and larger until it took the form of a great, platinum dragon. It was easily the five-headed dragon's match in size and power. The platinum dragon made a strange, crooning-purr that set the air vibrating. At the sound, a single flying shadow from high above, one of the small dragons that were circling overhead suddenly swooped towards him.

Pendleton ducked and turned in time to watch the golden form pass. It circled over the families of the five, peering at them all out of tiny jewel-bright eyes. He had the distinct feeling he was being sized up by the tiny creature. It dove through the brilliant light of the portal and disappeared.

"Uh oh," he grumbled as he settled back behind the boulder again. '_Earth gets invaded by alien dragons from alternate dimension. News at eleven.' _He fingered the gun at his waist, but it seemed terribly inadequate against the dragons in their glory. He looked at the young man beside him.

Andrew shook his head. "It'll close soon. I can't. . . I've got nothing left."

The detective gave his shoulder a reassuring grip. "We need to get you all back now and get out of this place."

A second dragon, this light green in color, hissed at the gathered families and darted through the portal after the gold dragon.

Andrew lifted his glasses to rub his eyes and nose on his sleeve. His glasses settled back on his nose, the flickering of the portal reflected in their lenses. Finally he mumbled, "I can't go through the portal, you know. I opened it. But I can't go through."

Pendleton straightened, causing a bright copper dragon to dart around him before it careened through the portal. "Why?"

Andrew struggled to find the right words to answer. "The. . . no, it's the. . . um. . . " He looked up at the detective again and caught sight of the badge that was clipped on the officer's belt. "It's the riddle. What's the one thing that can't go through the hole of a doughnut?"

Pendleton shook his head, giving up without attempting an answer.

"The doughnut," Andrew answered simply.

* * *

'_Expect anything. It's all a part of the plan.'_

The physics, Joe Petrosky, Scanner, never needed to know. And Gabriel had convinced him that he could be trusted, with his life if necessary.

Scanner had seen some pretty strange things before, and read about more.

But nothing had prepared him for this.

As he watched, slack jawed, the portal in the center of the room, a shimmering golden form burst through the light and into the vast central cavern. A being of legend had appeared in the lab. Long wings held aloft a slender body shimmering with bright gold. The being lowered itself to the ground to stand on its own feet, then wrapped its wings around itself. It smiled him with a face so piercingly sweet he could never have described it, a face as innocent as small child. The moment it touched the ground, it continued its transformation, growing taller and straighter. Its wings were absorbed into its body, and its glow faded until he saw simply the image of a man, standing and watching him with peaceful blue eyes.

A second figure shot from the portal. This one was covered in fine green scale, leathery wings outspread. It leered at him with sharpened teeth. Its arms moved restlessly, as if eager to find some mischief to do. Scanner was not a religious man, but he knew a demon when he saw one. This creature also alighted on the floor, and as it touched the ground, it slowly shifted into the figure of a second man, straight and handsome, but with a glint of madness in his eye. Scanner backed quickly away from the edges of the pit and pressed himself against the instrument panel he was supposed to run.

More and more figures flooded through the portal, both angelic and demonic, though the angelic presences did seem more plentiful. Each settled on the floor and took the appearance of a human, until the chamber was filled with their numbers, all waiting around the glowing white pillar that was the portal.

He'd only been working for Dymocorp for about a month. Scanner wondered if that was too soon to ask for a raise. He deserved one.

* * *

The transformation of Bahamut and the dragons flying through the portal had startled the abductees and their families. The knot of people drew closer to the towering gate and closer to each other. Andrew slowly pulled himself up to his feet, leaning against the boulder as the others drew nearer.

"Will you be all right?" Pendleton asked, giving him a supporting hand.

Andrew didn't answer. He turned away from the detective to give sickly smiles to the Currys, shrugging in response to Ethan's circumspect questions about the nature of the portal. He accepted a hug from Amanda and a handshake from Steven. He was fussed over by Margaret O'Brien, and given a sympathetic pat on the shoulder from Dan. By the end of the gauntlet, he looked ready to collapse again. But Bobby came over and stood by him, supporting him so that Pendleton could turn his attention back to the portal.

More dragons passed rapidly through the gate. Pendleton estimated forty or fifty of them had traveled through so far. The great red dragon hissed her displeasure. The platinum dragon threw back his head and laughed, a musical resonance like distant thunder. "Enough. I understand."

His form shifted back down, growing smaller and smaller until he again stood, in shape and size a mortal man. But the now-silent humans who watched him knew he was anything but. He smiled as he approached the group of them near the portal.

"Excellent job, my boy," he said to Andrew as he passed, patting the young man on the shoulder. "I fear you have quite disappointed my partner. She does so love to watch her dramas of good and evil. But for myself, I'm very pleased."

Andrew seemed too taken aback, or possibly too exhausted, to respond.

Bahamut reached the gateway and turned to the group of them. "I regret to inform you that I don't believe this gate will stay open much longer. That brings us to a moment of decision. Who shall be returning?"

Pendleton frowned, about to mention what Andrew had told him earlier. But the russet-haired young man just shook his head at him and stepped away from the portal without answering. The detective instead watched the others who had traveled in this world.

Eric spoke next, turning to his father. "Dad. . . I can't tell you how much it means to me to have you come here. But I have men down there who need me. I need to make sure the Blades make it out of here safely. I'm their captain now. They're my responsibility."

Steven Montgomery gave his son a considered review. Finally, he nodded. "There have been times. . . too many times. . . when I've left you behind to look after the people who I led. If this is truly what you believe you have to do, then I can accept it."

Diana reached out and slipped her hand into Eric's. "Mom, Dad. . . I love you both. And I love Michael. But I love Eric. And there are a lot of people here who need me. There are creatures here, things that come after kids, destroy whole villages. I've been trained to fight them. I'm really good at it; I feel like it's what I was born to do. Do you understand?"

Eileen quickly rubbed her eyes. "Oh, baby. We always knew that you were meant for something special. This isn't quite what we were thinking of. . . "

Ethan wrapped an arm around his wife, offering her what comfort he could. "Di, we just want you to be happy."

Hank seemed torn. "Mom. . . if I stayed, would you be all right?"

Amanda decided on honesty. "Hank, you'll always be my little boy. I'll always miss you. But, yes. I'll be all right. Just knowing you're alive and you're safe is enough."

Hank looked relieved. "I'm glad, Mom. Because. . . there's something about this place. We've been here so long, I feel like I'm more a part of this world than home any more."

Pendleton saw a tear slide down Amanda's cheek as she hugged her son tightly. "It's okay, Hank. I'll be okay."

Sheila spoke last. "Bobby. . . when I, when we, thought you were dead. . . we decided to stay. I couldn't bear the thought of losing anyone else in Dungeonmaster's endless quests to get home. But this has become our home now too. I'm so glad that you went home to Mom and Dad. But. . . I want to stay."

Bobby hesitated. "You don't think I should come back, do you? I mean. . . if things are bad here. If you need me."

Sheila shook her head. "Look after Mom and Dad. Go to school. Be happy." She glanced over at Hank, and gave a small smile. "I think I will."

There was a lot more hugs and tears and goodbyes, but Pendleton's eyes were on Andrew, who sagged with relief against the rock. "So, will you be all right? Is there anything you need?" he asked again.

Andrew gave a melancholy smile. "I am, now. I'm glad they're not staying just because of me. I'm fine. . . we'll be fine."

Pendleton nodded and squeezed the young man's arm. "Then this is goodbye. Be well."

The parents of the other abductees were also making their goodbyes, stepping one by one through the portal. Pendleton nodded to Bahamut as he passed through the shimmering gateway and disappeared.

* * *

Hank had never imagined that it would happen like this. Back in the early days, long ago, he dreamed of sunlight brightening the waters of the lake in that distant, almost forgotten, amusement park. Stepping out into the sun from the shadows of the ride. Returning home to find his mom passed out drunk on the couch again and school starting the next day.

In darker moments, he thought about walking down the empty street to his apartment after time had passed. Reporting his return to the police. The inevitable questions about where he'd been and what had happened. He'd had a story all figured out, deciding that it would be easier just to claim he'd been a runaway than dealing with the questions about his sanity.

And then, after Bobby was gone, he'd resigned himself to the fact that he would never see his mother again. It was a private grief, buried with the memories of Sheila's little brother that he had confided to no one. Donovan seemed to understand.

But she had been here. She came for him, after all this time. He'd gotten to say goodbye to her, see she was all right, explain to her why he had to stay. It was more than he'd hoped for, and he was grateful. From the expressions of the others, except maybe Presto, they felt the same. They all drew nearer to each other, seeking the support of long companionship as they watched the their parents leave.

The detective, Hank never was told his name, was the last to go. Around him, the portal quickly grew smaller and smaller. It hung in the air, only the size of a dinner plate. The Platinum Dragon, in a human form, stood before it, smiling at them.

"Thank you all," the silver-haired man spoke to them. "Every thousand years, give or take, a new generation of dragons is born to the Realm, and so brings about a new age. The last was an age of gods and catspaws, powerful beings who fought an endless battle for yet more powerful beings who fought for more powerful beings, with the Realm as a battlefield." He glanced up. Many of the dragonspawn still circled overhead, though far fewer than before.

"I think this age will be more like the age of Merlin, when mortals strove for good and evil of their own accord. It was a time of legends, of the heroes who lay in the Hall of Bones And the forgers of the weapons of power. This is your world now. I'm glad you are here to take care of it." He glanced up at Tiamat, who snarled at him in a peeved way. "My beloved wife does not necessarily take proper care of the toys in her playground."

"Though Venger is gone, this world is a difficult one. I cannot return your old weapons to you; without causing further. . . disagreements with my beloved. But, as new heroes, out of my deepest gratitude and to aid you with that task. . . " Bahamut bowed respectfully towards Sheila, an archaic formality. "I thank you, Princess." He stretched out his hand. The worn, black cloak she had draped over her arm brightened to a rich, royal blue. Despite its fine hue and fabric, it seemed to blend perfectly with the shadows cast by the rising eastern sun. As her fingers brushed it, Sheila gave a small sigh.

Bahamut turned and bowed towards Hank. "Druid." With a gesture, the length of the ash-wood bow in Hank's hand darkened to black, the light of dozens of tiny stars sparkling in its surface. He pulled the string experimentally, and the starlight pooled around his fingertips, ready to invest any arrow.

"Warrior," Bahamut made the same gesture of respect towards Diana. Diana's hand wrapped around the blackened length of her broken spear, but at his word, the splintered top sealed into a cap with a single, steel ring on top, a second ring encircling the first The shaft of the spear, though still blackened and brown, crackled up and down with vivid blue sparks of electricity. The rings jingled as she shifted her weight.

Bahamut smiled as he said "Paladin." The shield on Eric's arm glowed golden, and the red blade device upon its front seemed to flicker as if crafted from flame itself. Eric couldn't repress a grin of pleasure as he felt the difference.

Bahamut turned last of all to Presto. "Wizard, I'm sorry I don't have any enchantment worthy to offer you. You don't really want the hat back, do you?"

Presto shook his head quickly, holding up his hands and backing away. "Um. . . no thanks. I'm good. I have everything I need."

"You do indeed." He bent down to pick up the Barbarian's Club.

Finally, the Platinum Dragon turned to Tiamat and inclined his head in a gesture of respect. "In another thousand years, Tiamat. You'll have forgiven me by then. You always do."

Acid, lightening, flame, ice, and poisonous gas all converged upon the spot where Bahamut had been standing before the portal. Fortunately, there was sufficient time for the Young Ones to scatter before her weapons could cause any of them harm. When Hank looked up from behind the boulder they had dived behind, the Platinum Dragon and the portal were both gone.

Tiamat said nothing to them, but spread her wings wide and took flight, trailed by the hoard of her young. They disappeared into a darkness opening to a sky full of stars, tinged with pink in the east as the first of the suns began to rise. A new day had dawned.

* * *

The monitors were blank when they had returned through the portal, and the dragons were gone. The group found themselves standing instead in the midst of a large number of people, men and women of every race and feature, all standing and gazing at the portal unashamed of their nakedness. Bahamut stepped out of the column of light just as its own glow had reduced to a mere flicker. As he emerged, the central column of the room went dark completely.

It was Margaret O'Brien who broke the silence. "Are you a. . . Who are you, really?"

Bahamut's eyes twinkled. " 'Are you a god?' you mean? I enjoyed that movie. . . very humorous. Though, despite Winston Zeddemore's best advice, I fear I must answer no. I am merely serving to ensure that the celestial ranks are properly manned. You have helped attract my children to this world. Thank you."

Bobby smirked. "I thought you kept Order. Is this orderly?"

"You may have noticed; there is a lot of chaos in the world. I need all the help I can get.'

* * *

The moonlight lit the fine sheers with a pale glow as it shone through the window of the beautiful suite. Outside, John Pendleton could hear the gentle heave and sigh of the ocean as it pounded endlessly on the sand. He lay under the silken sheets, hands tucked behind his head and looking at the blades of the ceiling fan overhead spinning silently around, making dancing shadows across the ceiling.

Steven Montgomery had been as good as his word. The oceanfront resort was lovely, and Melanie was ecstatic about the long-overdue vacation. She even had forgiven him for disappearing from town for a few days and being unwilling to tell her where he'd been or what he had seen.

Of course, they couldn't go right away. There were other cases to close. The unexpected phone call from the FBI saying they were sealing the Park Kids case had its own round of questions. The chief was not be satisfied until he was sure that every 'i' was dotted and 't' was crossed before he bowed to political pressure and did the same.

Closing the case, of course, would never end Pendleton's own questions about it. Who was Bahamut, really? Who were the strange people who Neary, Laughlin, and Petrosky had lead away at the Wyoming base, and what were they doing now? He had gotten calls from Eileen and Margaret both to let him know that their kids (for they would always be kids to them) were fine, all was well, that weddings were scheduled and babies were predicted. How had they known?

But lying there, in the moonlight, he mostly thought of the kids themselves. Leaving their families behind. Out, conquering the world. And maybe making it a better place. '_It must be hard to let go. But I suppose that is what you have to do when you have kids. In the end.'_

Pendleton's wife emerged from the bathroom, looking radiant with her flowing nightgown and beautiful dark hair. She smiled and slid into the bed next to him, pulling the blankets over them both. She laid her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her.

"Well?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. He could hear the smile in her voice. '_It is hard to be a hard-boiled detective when you have such a lovely creature on your arm.' _After a moment of silence that he simply savored, she said, "If it's a girl, I'd like to name her after my mother. But I don't know what to call him if it's a boy. What do you think?"

He pulled her closer. "What about Andrew?"

* * *

It was a perfect night. Only the smallest and darkest of the moons hung in the sky, and it was a slender crescent. Alcibides the astronomer lead his young son up the spiraling stone steps to reach the great observatory that marked the highest point of the ancient castle of Helix. Below him, the castle's wide courtyard and crumbling walls lingered in darkness. Beyond them, the mighty city the castle warded stretched out, wrapped in a heavy veil of sleep.

Garius rubbed his sleepy eyes and trailed after his father until they reached the top. Above them, the stars stretched out gloriously across the heavens, glittering ice-bright in the cool early-autumn air.

The astronomer crouched near his boy. "This is a perfect night for stargazing, Garius. See there? You can make out the form of the Archer. There are the three stars that form his belt. The red star there marks his shoulder, and that arc of stars on the left, his bow. Can you see it?"

Garius nodded, easily picking out the brilliant constellation. "Why is it called the Archer?"

Alcibides smiled indulgently. "Many constellations have names that come from legends from the dawn of the age. A time of great heroes and terrifying dragons, long, long ago. The Archer, by legend, was the first druid of this age. They say it was he who planted the sanctuary groves, which still stand to this day. They say you can find unicorns there, and no evil can pass into those places."

His boy grinned. He liked stories about unicorns, and was convinced he would find a baby unicorn of his own one day, to be a playmate. The astronomer laughed each time Garius retold his childish fantasy.

"That constellation is the Shield. Five stars, two above, two below, and one forming its lowest point." The astronomer pointed out another constellation, this one closer to the horizon.

"Does it have a story?" the child asked eagerly.

"Of course. The Shield, they say, was carried by a paladin, a general of a mighty army that unified the warring states into a single commonwealth of nations, leading to a hundred years of peace. Our modern knighthood's customs are said to model themselves on the ancient ways of that noble order."

Garius's eyes sparkled as he gestured to a misty white veil that streamed across the northeastern sky. "Is that a constellation?" he asked.

Alcibides shook his head. "Not exactly. That is the Cloak of Night. It is many small stars, too fine to see with the naked eye, but which are visible to my telescope. However, the legend says that it was once worn by a beautiful princess from the East. She used it to convince the rulers of nations to reveal the secrets of their hearts. And in so doing she opened the doors to diplomacy between the nations and prevented many wars. Back then, dragons were a terrible danger to the land, and her ability to end the petty battles saved many lives."

"Are there still dragons out there, Papa?"

"A few, perhaps. They are very rare now. They were a menace in ancient times, as were many other horrible creatures that loved to devour little boys like you for breakfast." The astronomer pointed to a line of stars that pointed south to north across the heavens. "That is the Rod of Power, as they call it. It is symbol of the Celestial Knights, carried by their greatest leader long, long ago. The Celestial Knights were winged and mounted warriors that lived to protect the people, including little boys like you, from the monsters of the day."

Garius shivered with excitement at the idea of great flying knights fighting monsters and saving people. "Neat!"

The astronomer smiled. He traced the path along the Rod to a single star glowing in the northern sky. "And the Rod points to the North Star, the star of Magic. It is dedicated to the founder of the mage's circle; the man who began this very university at Helix. He was a wizard of great power. Storytellers say that, at the end of his life, he used magic to take himself right up into the heavens so he could light the way for all travelers searching for the way home."

The boy looked at the glimmering white light of the distant North Star for a moment, and asked his father, "Can I ever be a hero, Papa?"

His father patted his young son on the shoulder. "You will be."


End file.
